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diff --git a/6340-0.txt b/6340-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..921bdf5 --- /dev/null +++ b/6340-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5344 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Literary Lapses, by Stephen Leacock + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no +restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it +under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this +eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the +United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you +are located before using this eBook. + +Title: Literary Lapses + +Author: Stephen Leacock + +Release Date: June 21, 2004 [EBook #6340] [Most recently updated: April +6, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 with BOM + +Produced by: Gardner Buchanan + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITERARY LAPSES *** + + + + +LITERARY LAPSES + + +By Stephen Leacock + + + + +_CONTENTS_ + + + MY FINANCIAL CAREER + LORD OXHEAD'S SECRET + BOARDING-HOUSE GEOMETRY + THE AWFUL FATE OF MELPOMENUS JONES + A CHRISTMAS LETTER + HOW TO MAKE A MILLION DOLLARS + HOW TO LIVE TO BE 200 + HOW TO AVOID GETTING MARRIED + HOW TO BE A DOCTOR + THE NEW FOOD + A NEW PATHOLOGY + THE POET ANSWERED + THE FORCE OF STATISTICS + MEN WHO HAVE SHAVED ME + GETTING THE THREAD OF IT + TELLING HIS FAULTS + WINTER PASTIMES + NUMBER FIFTY-SIX + ARISTOCRATIC EDUCATION + THE CONJURER'S REVENGE + HINTS TO TRAVELLERS + A MANUAL OF EDUCATION + HOODOO MCFIGGIN'S CHRISTMAS + THE LIFE OF JOHN SMITH + ON COLLECTING THINGS + SOCIETY CHIT-CHAT + INSURANCE UP TO DATE + BORROWING A MATCH + A LESSON IN FICTION + HELPING THE ARMENIANS + A STUDY IN STILL LIFE.--THE COUNTRY HOTEL + AN EXPERIMENT WITH POLICEMAN HOGAN + THE PASSING OF THE POET + SELF-MADE MEN + A MODEL DIALOGUE + BACK TO THE BUSH + REFLECTIONS ON RIDING + SALOONIO + HALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS -- + I. MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL + II. HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN + III. OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE "HESPERUS" + A, B, AND C + + + + +_My Financial Career_ + + +When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets +rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me. + +The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact +business there, I become an irresponsible idiot. + +I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a +month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it. + +So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea +that a person about to open an account must needs consult the manager. + +I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant." The accountant was a tall, +cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral. + +"Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone." I don't +know why I said "alone." + +"Certainly," said the accountant, and fetched him. + +The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched +in a crumpled ball in my pocket. + +"Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it. + +"Yes," he said. + +"Can I see you," I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say "alone" again, +but without it the thing seemed self-evident. + +The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that I had an awful +secret to reveal. + +"Come in here," he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned +the key in the lock. + +"We are safe from interruption here," he said; "sit down." + +We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak. + +"You are one of Pinkerton's men, I presume," he said. + +He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was a detective. I knew +what he was thinking, and it made me worse. + +"No, not from Pinkerton's," I said, seeming to imply that I came from a +rival agency. + +"To tell the truth," I went on, as if I had been prompted to lie about +it, "I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I +intend to keep all my money in this bank." + +The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concluded now that I +was a son of Baron Rothschild or a young Gould. + +"A large account, I suppose," he said. + +"Fairly large," I whispered. "I propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now +and fifty dollars a month regularly." + +The manager got up and opened the door. He called to the accountant. + +"Mr. Montgomery," he said unkindly loud, "this gentleman is opening an +account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning." + +I rose. + +A big iron door stood open at the side of the room. + +"Good morning," I said, and stepped into the safe. + +"Come out," said the manager coldly, and showed me the other way. + +I went up to the accountant's wicket and poked the ball of money at him +with a quick convulsive movement as if I were doing a conjuring trick. + +My face was ghastly pale. + +"Here," I said, "deposit it." The tone of the words seemed to mean, "Let +us do this painful thing while the fit is on us." + +He took the money and gave it to another clerk. + +He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my name in a book. I no +longer knew what I was doing. The bank swam before my eyes. + +"Is it deposited?" I asked in a hollow, vibrating voice. + +"It is," said the accountant. + +"Then I want to draw a cheque." + +My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. Someone gave +me a chequebook through a wicket and someone else began telling me how +to write it out. The people in the bank had the impression that I was an +invalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque and thrust it in at +the clerk. He looked at it. + +"What! are you drawing it all out again?" he asked in surprise. Then I +realized that I had written fifty-six instead of six. I was too far gone +to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the +thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me. + +Reckless with misery, I made a plunge. + +"Yes, the whole thing." + +"You withdraw your money from the bank?" + +"Every cent of it." + +"Are you not going to deposit any more?" said the clerk, astonished. + +"Never." + +An idiot hope struck me that they might think something had insulted me +while I was writing the cheque and that I had changed my mind. I made a +wretched attempt to look like a man with a fearfully quick temper. + +The clerk prepared to pay the money. + +"How will you have it?" he said. + +"What?" + +"How will you have it?" + +"Oh"--I caught his meaning and answered without even trying to +think--"in fifties." + +He gave me a fifty-dollar bill. + +"And the six?" he asked dryly. + +"In sixes," I said. + +He gave it me and I rushed out. + +As the big door swung behind me I caught the echo of a roar of laughter +that went up to the ceiling of the bank. Since then I bank no more. I +keep my money in cash in my trousers pocket and my savings in silver +dollars in a sock. + + + + +_Lord Oxhead's Secret_ + +A ROMANCE IN ONE CHAPTER + + +It was finished. Ruin had come. Lord Oxhead sat gazing fixedly at the +library fire. Without, the wind soughed (or sogged) around the turrets +of Oxhead Towers, the seat of the Oxhead family. But the old earl heeded +not the sogging of the wind around his seat. He was too absorbed. + +Before him lay a pile of blue papers with printed headings. From time to +time he turned them over in his hands and replaced them on the table +with a groan. To the earl they meant ruin--absolute, irretrievable ruin, +and with it the loss of his stately home that had been the pride of the +Oxheads for generations. More than that--the world would now know the +awful secret of his life. + +The earl bowed his head in the bitterness of his sorrow, for he came of +a proud stock. About him hung the portraits of his ancestors. Here on +the right an Oxhead who had broken his lance at Crecy, or immediately +before it. There McWhinnie Oxhead who had ridden madly from the stricken +field of Flodden to bring to the affrighted burghers of Edinburgh all +the tidings that he had been able to gather in passing the battlefield. +Next him hung the dark half Spanish face of Sir Amyas Oxhead of +Elizabethan days whose pinnace was the first to dash to Plymouth with +the news that the English fleet, as nearly as could be judged from a +reasonable distance, seemed about to grapple with the Spanish Armada. +Below this, the two Cavalier brothers, Giles and Everard Oxhead, who had +sat in the oak with Charles II. Then to the right again the portrait of +Sir Ponsonby Oxhead who had fought with Wellington in Spain, and been +dismissed for it. + +Immediately before the earl as he sat was the family escutcheon +emblazoned above the mantelpiece. A child might read the simplicity of +its proud significance--an ox rampant quartered in a field of gules with +a pike dexter and a dog intermittent in a plain parallelogram right +centre, with the motto, "Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus." + + * * * * * + +"Father!"--The girl's voice rang clear through the half light of the +wainscoted library. Gwendoline Oxhead had thrown herself about the +earl's neck. The girl was radiant with happiness. Gwendoline was a +beautiful girl of thirty-three, typically English in the freshness of +her girlish innocence. She wore one of those charming walking suits of +brown holland so fashionable among the aristocracy of England, while a +rough leather belt encircled her waist in a single sweep. She bore +herself with that sweet simplicity which was her greatest charm. She was +probably more simple than any girl of her age for miles around. +Gwendoline was the pride of her father's heart, for he saw reflected in +her the qualities of his race. + +"Father," she said, a blush mantling her fair face, "I am so happy, oh +so happy; Edwin has asked me to be his wife, and we have plighted our +troth--at least if you consent. For I will never marry without my +father's warrant," she added, raising her head proudly; "I am too much +of an Oxhead for that." + +Then as she gazed into the old earl's stricken face, the girl's mood +changed at once. "Father," she cried, "father, are you ill? What is it? +Shall I ring?" As she spoke Gwendoline reached for the heavy bell-rope +that hung beside the wall, but the earl, fearful that her frenzied +efforts might actually make it ring, checked her hand. "I am, indeed, +deeply troubled," said Lord Oxhead, "but of that anon. Tell me first +what is this news you bring. I hope, Gwendoline, that your choice has +been worthy of an Oxhead, and that he to whom you have plighted your +troth will be worthy to bear our motto with his own." And, raising his +eyes to the escutcheon before him, the earl murmured half unconsciously, +"Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus," breathing perhaps a prayer as +many of his ancestors had done before him that he might never forget it. + +"Father," continued Gwendoline, half timidly, "Edwin is an American." + +"You surprise me indeed," answered Lord Oxhead; "and yet," he continued, +turning to his daughter with the courtly grace that marked the nobleman +of the old school, "why should we not respect and admire the Americans? +Surely there have been great names among them. Indeed, our ancestor Sir +Amyas Oxhead was, I think, married to Pocahontas--at least if not +actually married"--the earl hesitated a moment. + +"At least they loved one another," said Gwendoline simply. + +"Precisely," said the earl, with relief, "they loved one another, yes, +exactly." Then as if musing to himself, "Yes, there have been great +Americans. Bolivar was an American. The two Washingtons--George and +Booker--are both Americans. There have been others too, though for the +moment I do not recall their names. But tell me, Gwendoline, this Edwin +of yours--where is his family seat?" + +"It is at Oshkosh, Wisconsin, father." + +"Ah! say you so?" rejoined the earl, with rising interest. "Oshkosh is, +indeed, a grand old name. The Oshkosh are a Russian family. An Ivan +Oshkosh came to England with Peter the Great and married my ancestress. +Their descendant in the second degree once removed, Mixtup Oshkosh, +fought at the burning of Moscow and later at the sack of Salamanca and +the treaty of Adrianople. And Wisconsin too," the old nobleman went on, +his features kindling with animation, for he had a passion for heraldry, +genealogy, chronology, and commercial geography; "the Wisconsins, or +better, I think, the Guisconsins, are of old blood. A Guisconsin +followed Henry I to Jerusalem and rescued my ancestor Hardup Oxhead from +the Saracens. Another Guisconsin...." + +"Nay, father," said Gwendoline, gently interrupting, "Wisconsin is not +Edwin's own name: that is, I believe, the name of his estate. My lover's +name is Edwin Einstein." + +"Einstein," repeated the earl dubiously--"an Indian name perhaps; yet +the Indians are many of them of excellent family. An ancestor of +mine...." + +"Father," said Gwendoline, again interrupting, "here is a portrait of +Edwin. Judge for yourself if he be noble." With this she placed in her +father's hand an American tin-type, tinted in pink and brown. The +picture represented a typical specimen of American manhood of that +Anglo-Semitic type so often seen in persons of mixed English and Jewish +extraction. The figure was well over five feet two inches in height and +broad in proportion. The graceful sloping shoulders harmonized with the +slender and well-poised waist, and with a hand pliant and yet +prehensile. The pallor of the features was relieved by a drooping black +moustache. + +Such was Edwin Einstein to whom Gwendoline's heart, if not her hand, was +already affianced. Their love had been so simple and yet so strange. It +seemed to Gwendoline that it was but a thing of yesterday, and yet in +reality they had met three weeks ago. Love had drawn them irresistibly +together. To Edwin the fair English girl with her old name and wide +estates possessed a charm that he scarcely dared confess to himself. He +determined to woo her. To Gwendoline there was that in Edwin's bearing, +the rich jewels that he wore, the vast fortune that rumour ascribed to +him, that appealed to something romantic and chivalrous in her nature. +She loved to hear him speak of stocks and bonds, corners and margins, +and his father's colossal business. It all seemed so noble and so far +above the sordid lives of the people about her. Edwin, too, loved to +hear the girl talk of her father's estates, of the diamond-hilted sword +that the saladin had given, or had lent, to her ancestor hundreds of +years ago. Her description of her father, the old earl, touched +something romantic in Edwin's generous heart. He was never tired of +asking how old he was, was he robust, did a shock, a sudden shock, +affect him much? and so on. Then had come the evening that Gwendoline +loved to live over and over again in her mind when Edwin had asked her +in his straightforward, manly way, whether--subject to certain written +stipulations to be considered later--she would be his wife: and she, +putting her hand confidingly in his hand, answered simply, that--subject +to the consent of her father and pending always the necessary legal +formalities and inquiries--she would. + +It had all seemed like a dream: and now Edwin Einstein had come in +person to ask her hand from the earl, her father. Indeed, he was at this +moment in the outer hall testing the gold leaf in the picture-frames +with his pen-knife while waiting for his affianced to break the fateful +news to Lord Oxhead. + +Gwendoline summoned her courage for a great effort. "Papa," she said, +"there is one other thing that it is fair to tell you. Edwin's father is +in business." + +The earl started from his seat in blank amazement. "In business!" he +repeated, "the father of the suitor of the daughter of an Oxhead in +business! My daughter the step-daughter of the grandfather of my +grandson! Are you mad, girl? It is too much, too much!" + +"But, father," pleaded the beautiful girl in anguish, "hear me. It is +Edwin's father--Sarcophagus Einstein, senior--not Edwin himself. Edwin +does nothing. He has never earned a penny. He is quite unable to support +himself. You have only to see him to believe it. Indeed, dear father, he +is just like us. He is here now, in this house, waiting to see you. If +it were not for his great wealth...." + +"Girl," said the earl sternly, "I care not for the man's riches. How +much has he?" + +"Fifteen million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," answered +Gwendoline. Lord Oxhead leaned his head against the mantelpiece. His +mind was in a whirl. He was trying to calculate the yearly interest on +fifteen and a quarter million dollars at four and a half per cent +reduced to pounds, shillings, and pence. It was bootless. His brain, +trained by long years of high living and plain thinking, had become too +subtle, too refined an instrument for arithmetic.... + + * * * * * + +At this moment the door opened and Edwin Einstein stood before the earl. +Gwendoline never forgot what happened. Through her life the picture of +it haunted her--her lover upright at the door, his fine frank gaze fixed +inquiringly on the diamond pin in her father's necktie, and he, her +father, raising from the mantelpiece a face of agonized amazement. + +"You! You!" he gasped. For a moment he stood to his full height, swaying +and groping in the air, then fell prostrate his full length upon the +floor. The lovers rushed to his aid. Edwin tore open his neckcloth and +plucked aside his diamond pin to give him air. But it was too late. Earl +Oxhead had breathed his last. Life had fled. The earl was extinct. That +is to say, he was dead. + +The reason of his death was never known. Had the sight of Edwin killed +him? It might have. The old family doctor, hurriedly summoned, declared +his utter ignorance. This, too, was likely. Edwin himself could explain +nothing. But it was observed that after the earl's death and his +marriage with Gwendoline he was a changed man; he dressed better, talked +much better English. + +The wedding itself was quiet, almost sad. At Gwendoline's request there +was no wedding breakfast, no bridesmaids, and no reception, while Edwin, +respecting his bride's bereavement, insisted that there should be no +best man, no flowers, no presents, and no honeymoon. + +Thus Lord Oxhead's secret died with him. It was probably too complicated +to be interesting anyway. + + + + +_Boarding-House Geometry_ + + +DEFINITIONS AND AXIOMS + +All boarding-houses are the same boarding-house. + +Boarders in the same boarding-house and on the same flat are equal to +one another. + +A single room is that which has no parts and no magnitude. + +The landlady of a boarding-house is a parallelogram--that is, an oblong +angular figure, which cannot be described, but which is equal to +anything. + +A wrangle is the disinclination of two boarders to each other that meet +together but are not in the same line. + +All the other rooms being taken, a single room is said to be a double +room. + + +POSTULATES AND PROPOSITIONS + +A pie may be produced any number of times. + +The landlady can be reduced to her lowest terms by a series of +propositions. + +A bee line may be made from any boarding-house to any other +boarding-house. + +The clothes of a boarding-house bed, though produced ever so far both +ways, will not meet. + +Any two meals at a boarding-house are together less than two square +meals. + +If from the opposite ends of a boarding-house a line be drawn passing +through all the rooms in turn, then the stovepipe which warms the +boarders will lie within that line. + +On the same bill and on the same side of it there should not be two +charges for the same thing. + +If there be two boarders on the same flat, and the amount of side of the +one be equal to the amount of side of the other, each to each, and the +wrangle between one boarder and the landlady be equal to the wrangle +between the landlady and the other, then shall the weekly bills of the +two boarders be equal also, each to each. + +For if not, let one bill be the greater. + +Then the other bill is less than it might have been--which is absurd. + + + + +_The Awful Fate of Melpomenus Jones_ + + +Some people--not you nor I, because we are so awfully +self-possessed--but some people, find great difficulty in saying +good-bye when making a call or spending the evening. As the moment draws +near when the visitor feels that he is fairly entitled to go away he +rises and says abruptly, "Well, I think I...." Then the people say, "Oh, +must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitiful struggle ensues. + +I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that I ever knew was that +of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate--such a dear young man, and +only twenty-three! He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too +modest to tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it +happened that he went to call on some friends of his on the very first +afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his +own--absolutely nothing to do. He chatted awhile, drank two cups of tea, +then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly: + +"Well, I think I...." + +But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no! Mr. Jones, can't you really +stay a little longer?" + +Jones was always truthful. "Oh, yes," he said, "of course, I--er--can +stay." + +"Then please don't go." + +He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose +again. + +"Well now," he said shyly, "I think I really...." + +"You must go?" said the lady politely. "I thought perhaps you could have +stayed to dinner...." + +"Oh well, so I could, you know," Jones said, "if...." + +"Then please stay, I'm sure my husband will be delighted." + +"All right," he said feebly, "I'll stay," and he sank back into his +chair, just full of tea, and miserable. + +Papa came home. They had dinner. All through the meal Jones sat planning +to leave at eight-thirty. All the family wondered whether Mr. Jones was +stupid and sulky, or only stupid. + +After dinner mamma undertook to "draw him out," and showed him +photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of +them--photos of papa's uncle and his wife, and mamma's brother and his +little boy, an awfully interesting photo of papa's uncle's friend in his +Bengal uniform, an awfully well-taken photo of papa's grandfather's +partner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of papa as the devil for a +fancy-dress ball. At eight-thirty Jones had examined seventy-one +photographs. There were about sixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones +rose. + +"I must say good night now," he pleaded. + +"Say good night!" they said, "why it's only half-past eight! Have you +anything to do?" + +"Nothing," he admitted, and muttered something about staying six weeks, +and then laughed miserably. + +Just then it turned out that the favourite child of the family, such a +dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones's hat; so papa said that he must +stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Papa had the pipe and gave +Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the +plunge, but couldn't. Then papa began to get very tired of Jones, and +fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better +stay all night, they could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his +meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and papa put Jones to +bed in the spare room and cursed him heartily. + +After breakfast next day, papa went off to his work in the City, and +left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly +gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind +and he simply couldn't. When papa came home in the evening he was +surprised and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey +him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his +board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then +wrung papa's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down +and sobbed like a child. + +In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of +course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise +began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea +and looking at the photographs. He would stand for hours gazing at the +photographs of papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform--talking to +it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing. + +At length the crash came. They carried him upstairs in a raging delirium +of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, +not even papa's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would +start up from his bed and shriek, "Well, I think I...." and then fall +back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap +up and cry, "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! +Har! Har!" + +At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation, he +passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed +with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said, +"Well--the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good +afternoon." + +And the rushing of his spirit from its prison-house was as rapid as a +hunted cat passing over a garden fence. + + + + +_A Christmas Letter_ + +(_In answer to a young lady who has sent an invitation to be present at +a children's party_) + + +Mademoiselle, + +Allow me very gratefully but firmly to refuse your kind invitation. You +doubtless mean well; but your ideas are unhappily mistaken. + +Let us understand one another once and for all. I cannot at my mature +age participate in the sports of children with such abandon as I could +wish. I entertain, and have always entertained, the sincerest regard for +such games as Hunt-the-Slipper and Blind-Man's Buff. But I have now +reached a time of life, when, to have my eyes blindfolded and to have a +powerful boy of ten hit me in the back with a hobby-horse and ask me to +guess who hit me, provokes me to a fit of retaliation which could only +culminate in reckless criminality. Nor can I cover my shoulders with a +drawing-room rug and crawl round on my hands and knees under the +pretence that I am a bear without a sense of personal insufficiency, +which is painful to me. + +Neither can I look on with a complacent eye at the sad spectacle of your +young clerical friend, the Reverend Mr. Uttermost Farthing, abandoning +himself to such gambols and appearing in the role of life and soul of +the evening. Such a degradation of his holy calling grieves me, and I +cannot but suspect him of ulterior motives. + +You inform me that your maiden aunt intends to help you to entertain the +party. I have not, as you know, the honour of your aunt's acquaintance, +yet I think I may with reason surmise that she will organize +games--guessing games--in which she will ask me to name a river in Asia +beginning with a Z; on my failure to do so she will put a hot plate down +my neck as a forfeit, and the children will clap their hands. These +games, my dear young friend, involve the use of a more adaptable +intellect than mine, and I cannot consent to be a party to them. + +May I say in conclusion that I do not consider a five-cent pen-wiper +from the top branch of a Xmas tree any adequate compensation for the +kind of evening you propose. + + I have the honour + To subscribe myself, + Your obedient servant. + + + + +_How to Make a Million Dollars_ + + +I mix a good deal with the Millionaires. I like them. I like their +faces. I like the way they live. I like the things they eat. The more we +mix together the better I like the things we mix. + +Especially I like the way they dress, their grey check trousers, their +white check waist-coats, their heavy gold chains, and the signet-rings +that they sign their cheques with. My! they look nice. Get six or seven +of them sitting together in the club and it's a treat to see them. And +if they get the least dust on them, men come and brush it off. Yes, and +are glad to. I'd like to take some of the dust off them myself. + +Even more than what they eat I like their intellectual grasp. It is +wonderful. Just watch them read. They simply read all the time. Go into +the club at any hour and you'll see three or four of them at it. And the +things they can read! You'd think that a man who'd been driving hard in +the office from eleven o'clock until three, with only an hour and a half +for lunch, would be too fagged. Not a bit. These men can sit down after +office hours and read the Sketch and the Police Gazette and the Pink Un, +and understand the jokes just as well as I can. + +What I love to do is to walk up and down among them and catch the little +scraps of conversation. The other day I heard one lean forward and say, +"Well, I offered him a million and a half and said I wouldn't give a +cent more, he could either take it or leave it--" I just longed to break +in and say, "What! what! a million and a half! Oh! say that again! Offer +it to me, to either take it or leave it. Do try me once: I know I can: +or here, make it a plain million and let's call it done." + +Not that these men are careless over money. No, sir. Don't think it. Of +course they don't take much account of big money, a hundred thousand +dollars at a shot or anything of that sort. But little money. You've no +idea till you know them how anxious they get about a cent, or half a +cent, or less. + +Why, two of them came into the club the other night just frantic with +delight: they said wheat had risen and they'd cleaned up four cents each +in less than half an hour. They bought a dinner for sixteen on the +strength of it. I don't understand it. I've often made twice as much as +that writing for the papers and never felt like boasting about it. + +One night I heard one man say, "Well, let's call up New York and offer +them a quarter of a cent." Great heavens! Imagine paying the cost of +calling up New York, nearly five million people, late at night and +offering them a quarter of a cent! And yet--did New York get mad? No, +they took it. Of course it's high finance. I don't pretend to understand +it. I tried after that to call up Chicago and offer it a cent and a +half, and to call up Hamilton, Ontario, and offer it half a dollar, and +the operator only thought I was crazy. + +All this shows, of course, that I've been studying how the millionaires +do it. I have. For years. I thought it might be helpful to young men +just beginning to work and anxious to stop. + +You know, many a man realizes late in life that if when he was a boy he +had known what he knows now, instead of being what he is he might be +what he won't; but how few boys stop to think that if they knew what +they don't know instead of being what they will be, they wouldn't be? +These are awful thoughts. + +At any rate, I've been gathering hints on how it is they do it. + +One thing I'm sure about. If a young man wants to make a million dollars +he's got to be mighty careful about his diet and his living. This may +seem hard. But success is only achieved with pains. + +There is no use in a young man who hopes to make a million dollars +thinking he's entitled to get up at 7.30, eat force and poached eggs, +drink cold water at lunch, and go to bed at 10 p.m. You can't do it. +I've seen too many millionaires for that. If you want to be a +millionaire you mustn't get up till ten in the morning. They never do. +They daren't. It would be as much as their business is worth if they +were seen on the street at half-past nine. + +And the old idea of abstemiousness is all wrong. To be a millionaire you +need champagne, lots of it and all the time. That and Scotch whisky and +soda: you have to sit up nearly all night and drink buckets of it. This +is what clears the brain for business next day. I've seen some of these +men with their brains so clear in the morning, that their faces look +positively boiled. + +To live like this requires, of course, resolution. But you can buy that +by the pint. + +Therefore, my dear young man, if you want to get moved on from your +present status in business, change your life. When your landlady brings +your bacon and eggs for breakfast, throw them out of window to the dog +and tell her to bring you some chilled asparagus and a pint of Moselle. +Then telephone to your employer that you'll be down about eleven +o'clock. You will get moved on. Yes, very quickly. + +Just how the millionaires make the money is a difficult question. But +one way is this. Strike the town with five cents in your pocket. They +nearly all do this; they've told me again and again (men with millions +and millions) that the first time they struck town they had only five +cents. That seems to have given them their start. Of course, it's not +easy to do. I've tried it several times. I nearly did it once. I +borrowed five cents, carried it away out of town, and then turned and +came back at the town with an awful rush. If I hadn't struck a beer +saloon in the suburbs and spent the five cents I might have been rich +to-day. + +Another good plan is to start something. Something on a huge scale: +something nobody ever thought of. For instance, one man I know told me +that once he was down in Mexico without a cent (he'd lost his five in +striking Central America) and he noticed that they had no power plants. +So he started some and made a mint of money. Another man that I know was +once stranded in New York, absolutely without a nickel. Well, it +occurred to him that what was needed were buildings ten stories higher +than any that had been put up. So he built two and sold them right away. +Ever so many millionaires begin in some such simple way as that. + +There is, of course, a much easier way than any of these. I almost hate +to tell this, because I want to do it myself. + +I learned of it just by chance one night at the club. There is one old +man there, extremely rich, with one of the best faces of the lot, just +like a hyena. I never used to know how he had got so rich. So one +evening I asked one of the millionaires how old Bloggs had made all his +money. + +"How he made it?" he answered with a sneer. "Why he made it by taking it +out of widows and orphans." + +Widows and orphans! I thought, what an excellent idea. But who would +have suspected that they had it? + +"And how," I asked pretty cautiously, "did he go at it to get it out of +them?" + +"Why," the man answered, "he just ground them under his heels, that was +how." + +Now isn't that simple? I've thought of that conversation often since and +I mean to try it. If I can get hold of them, I'll grind them quick +enough. But how to get them. Most of the widows I know look pretty solid +for that sort of thing, and as for orphans, it must take an awful lot of +them. Meantime I am waiting, and if I ever get a large bunch of orphans +all together, I'll stamp on them and see. + +I find, too, on inquiry, that you can also grind it out of clergymen. +They say they grind nicely. But perhaps orphans are easier. + + + + +_How to Live to be 200_ + + +Twenty years ago I knew a man called Jiggins, who had the Health Habit. + +He used to take a cold plunge every morning. He said it opened his +pores. After it he took a hot sponge. He said it closed the pores. He +got so that he could open and shut his pores at will. + +Jiggins used to stand and breathe at an open window for half an hour +before dressing. He said it expanded his lungs. He might, of course, +have had it done in a shoe-store with a boot stretcher, but after all it +cost him nothing this way, and what is half an hour? + +After he had got his undershirt on, Jiggins used to hitch himself up +like a dog in harness and do Sandow exercises. He did them forwards, +backwards, and hind-side up. + +He could have got a job as a dog anywhere. He spent all his time at this +kind of thing. In his spare time at the office, he used to lie on his +stomach on the floor and see if he could lift himself up with his +knuckles. If he could, then he tried some other way until he found one +that he couldn't do. Then he would spend the rest of his lunch hour on +his stomach, perfectly happy. + +In the evenings in his room he used to lift iron bars, cannon-balls, +heave dumb-bells, and haul himself up to the ceiling with his teeth. You +could hear the thumps half a mile. He liked it. + +He spent half the night slinging himself around his room. He said it +made his brain clear. When he got his brain perfectly clear, he went to +bed and slept. As soon as he woke, he began clearing it again. + +Jiggins is dead. He was, of course, a pioneer, but the fact that he +dumb-belled himself to death at an early age does not prevent a whole +generation of young men from following in his path. + +They are ridden by the Health Mania. + +They make themselves a nuisance. + +They get up at impossible hours. They go out in silly little suits and +run Marathon heats before breakfast. They chase around barefoot to get +the dew on their feet. They hunt for ozone. They bother about pepsin. +They won't eat meat because it has too much nitrogen. They won't eat +fruit because it hasn't any. They prefer albumen and starch and nitrogen +to huckleberry pie and doughnuts. They won't drink water out of a tap. +They won't eat sardines out of a can. They won't use oysters out of a +pail. They won't drink milk out of a glass. They are afraid of alcohol +in any shape. Yes, sir, afraid. "Cowards." + +And after all their fuss they presently incur some simple old-fashioned +illness and die like anybody else. + +Now people of this sort have no chance to attain any great age. They are +on the wrong track. + +Listen. Do you want to live to be really old, to enjoy a grand, green, +exuberant, boastful old age and to make yourself a nuisance to your +whole neighbourhood with your reminiscences? + +Then cut out all this nonsense. Cut it out. Get up in the morning at a +sensible hour. The time to get up is when you have to, not before. If +your office opens at eleven, get up at ten-thirty. Take your chance on +ozone. There isn't any such thing anyway. Or, if there is, you can buy a +Thermos bottle full for five cents, and put it on a shelf in your +cupboard. If your work begins at seven in the morning, get up at ten +minutes to, but don't be liar enough to say that you like it. It isn't +exhilarating, and you know it. + +Also, drop all that cold-bath business. You never did it when you were a +boy. Don't be a fool now. If you must take a bath (you don't really need +to), take it warm. The pleasure of getting out of a cold bed and +creeping into a hot bath beats a cold plunge to death. In any case, stop +gassing about your tub and your "shower," as if you were the only man +who ever washed. + +So much for that point. + +Next, take the question of germs and bacilli. Don't be scared of them. +That's all. That's the whole thing, and if you once get on to that you +never need to worry again. + +If you see a bacilli, walk right up to it, and look it in the eye. If +one flies into your room, strike at it with your hat or with a towel. +Hit it as hard as you can between the neck and the thorax. It will soon +get sick of that. + +But as a matter of fact, a bacilli is perfectly quiet and harmless if +you are not afraid of it. Speak to it. Call out to it to "lie down." It +will understand. I had a bacilli once, called Fido, that would come and +lie at my feet while I was working. I never knew a more affectionate +companion, and when it was run over by an automobile, I buried it in the +garden with genuine sorrow. + +(I admit this is an exaggeration. I don't really remember its name; it +may have been Robert.) + +Understand that it is only a fad of modern medicine to say that cholera +and typhoid and diphtheria are caused by bacilli and germs; nonsense. +Cholera is caused by a frightful pain in the stomach, and diphtheria is +caused by trying to cure a sore throat. + +Now take the question of food. + +Eat what you want. Eat lots of it. Yes, eat too much of it. Eat till you +can just stagger across the room with it and prop it up against a sofa +cushion. Eat everything that you like until you can't eat any more. The +only test is, can you pay for it? If you can't pay for it, don't eat it. +And listen--don't worry as to whether your food contains starch, or +albumen, or gluten, or nitrogen. If you are a damn fool enough to want +these things, go and buy them and eat all you want of them. Go to a +laundry and get a bag of starch, and eat your fill of it. Eat it, and +take a good long drink of glue after it, and a spoonful of Portland +cement. That will gluten you, good and solid. + +If you like nitrogen, go and get a druggist to give you a canful of it +at the soda counter, and let you sip it with a straw. Only don't think +that you can mix all these things up with your food. There isn't any +nitrogen or phosphorus or albumen in ordinary things to eat. In any +decent household all that sort of stuff is washed out in the kitchen +sink before the food is put on the table. + +And just one word about fresh air and exercise. Don't bother with either +of them. Get your room full of good air, then shut up the windows and +keep it. It will keep for years. Anyway, don't keep using your lungs all +the time. Let them rest. As for exercise, if you have to take it, take +it and put up with it. But as long as you have the price of a hack and +can hire other people to play baseball for you and run races and do +gymnastics when you sit in the shade and smoke and watch them--great +heavens, what more do you want? + + + + +_How to Avoid Getting Married_ + + +Some years ago, when I was the Editor of a Correspondence Column, I used +to receive heart-broken letters from young men asking for advice and +sympathy. They found themselves the object of marked attentions from +girls which they scarcely knew how to deal with. They did not wish to +give pain or to seem indifferent to a love which they felt was as ardent +as it was disinterested, and yet they felt that they could not bestow +their hands where their hearts had not spoken. They wrote to me fully +and frankly, and as one soul might write to another for relief. I +accepted their confidences as under the pledge of a secrecy, never +divulging their disclosures beyond the circulation of my newspapers, or +giving any hint of their identity other than printing their names and +addresses and their letters in full. But I may perhaps without dishonour +reproduce one of these letters, and my answer to it, inasmuch as the +date is now months ago, and the softening hand of Time has woven its +roses--how shall I put it?--the mellow haze of reminiscences has--what I +mean is that the young man has gone back to work and is all right again. + +Here then is a letter from a young man whose name I must not reveal, but +whom I will designate as D. F., and whose address I must not divulge, +but will simply indicate as Q. Street, West. + +"DEAR MR. LEACOCK, + +"For some time past I have been the recipient of very marked attentions +from a young lady. She has been calling at the house almost every +evening, and has taken me out in her motor, and invited me to concerts +and the theatre. On these latter occasions I have insisted on her taking +my father with me, and have tried as far as possible to prevent her +saying anything to me which would be unfit for father to hear. But my +position has become a very difficult one. I do not think it right to +accept her presents when I cannot feel that my heart is hers. Yesterday +she sent to my house a beautiful bouquet of American Beauty roses +addressed to me, and a magnificent bunch of Timothy Hay for father. I do +not know what to say. Would it be right for father to keep all this +valuable hay? I have confided fully in father, and we have discussed the +question of presents. He thinks that there are some that we can keep +with propriety, and others that a sense of delicacy forbids us to +retain. He himself is going to sort out the presents into the two +classes. He thinks that as far as he can see, the Hay is in class B. +Meantime I write to you, as I understand that Miss Laura Jean Libby and +Miss Beatrix Fairfax are on their vacation, and in any case a friend of +mine who follows their writings closely tells me that they are always +full. + +"I enclose a dollar, because I do not think it right to ask you to give +all your valuable time and your best thought without giving you back +what it is worth." + +On receipt of this I wrote back at once a private and confidential +letter which I printed in the following edition of the paper. + +"MY DEAR, DEAR BOY, + +"Your letter has touched me. As soon as I opened it and saw the green +and blue tint of the dollar bill which you had so daintily and prettily +folded within the pages of your sweet letter, I knew that the note was +from someone that I could learn to love, if our correspondence were to +continue as it had begun. I took the dollar from your letter and kissed +and fondled it a dozen times. Dear unknown boy! I shall always keep that +dollar! No matter how much I may need it, or how many necessaries, yes, +absolute necessities, of life I may be wanting, I shall always keep THAT +dollar. Do you understand, dear? I shall keep it. I shall not spend it. +As far as the USE of it goes, it will be just as if you had not sent it. +Even if you were to send me another dollar, I should still keep the +first one, so that no matter how many you sent, the recollection of one +first friendship would not be contaminated with mercenary +considerations. When I say dollar, darling, of course an express order, +or a postal note, or even stamps would be all the same. But in that case +do not address me in care of this office, as I should not like to think +of your pretty little letters lying round where others might handle +them. + +"But now I must stop chatting about myself, for I know that you cannot +be interested in a simple old fogey such as I am. Let me talk to you +about your letter and about the difficult question it raises for all +marriageable young men. + +"In the first place, let me tell you how glad I am that you confide in +your father. Whatever happens, go at once to your father, put your arms +about his neck, and have a good cry together. And you are right, too, +about presents. It needs a wiser head than my poor perplexed boy to deal +with them. Take them to your father to be sorted, or, if you feel that +you must not overtax his love, address them to me in your own pretty +hand. + +"And now let us talk, dear, as one heart to another. Remember always +that if a girl is to have your heart she must be worthy of you. When you +look at your own bright innocent face in the mirror, resolve that you +will give your hand to no girl who is not just as innocent as you are +and no brighter than yourself. So that you must first find out how +innocent she is. Ask her quietly and frankly--remember, dear, that the +days of false modesty are passing away--whether she has ever been in +jail. If she has not (and if YOU have not), then you know that you are +dealing with a dear confiding girl who will make you a life mate. Then +you must know, too, that her mind is worthy of your own. So many men +to-day are led astray by the merely superficial graces and attractions +of girls who in reality possess no mental equipment at all. Many a man +is bitterly disillusioned after marriage when he realises that his wife +cannot solve a quadratic equation, and that he is compelled to spend all +his days with a woman who does not know that X squared plus 2XY plus Y +squared is the same thing, or, I think nearly the same thing, as X plus +Y squared. + +"Nor should the simple domestic virtues be neglected. If a girl desires +to woo you, before allowing her to press her suit, ask her if she knows +how to press yours. If she can, let her woo; if not, tell her to whoa. +But I see I have written quite as much as I need for this column. Won't +you write again, just as before, dear boy? + +"STEPHEN LEACOCK." + + + + +_How to be a Doctor_ + + +Certainly the progress of science is a wonderful thing. One can't help +feeling proud of it. I must admit that I do. Whenever I get talking to +anyone--that is, to anyone who knows even less about it than I do--about +the marvellous development of electricity, for instance, I feel as if I +had been personally responsible for it. As for the linotype and the +aeroplane and the vacuum house-cleaner, well, I am not sure that I +didn't invent them myself. I believe that all generous-hearted men feel +just the same way about it. + +However, that is not the point I am intending to discuss. What I want to +speak about is the progress of medicine. There, if you like, is +something wonderful. Any lover of humanity (or of either sex of it) who +looks back on the achievements of medical science must feel his heart +glow and his right ventricle expand with the pericardiac stimulus of a +permissible pride. + +Just think of it. A hundred years ago there were no bacilli, no ptomaine +poisoning, no diphtheria, and no appendicitis. Rabies was but little +known, and only imperfectly developed. All of these we owe to medical +science. Even such things as psoriasis and parotitis and +trypanosomiasis, which are now household names, were known only to the +few, and were quite beyond the reach of the great mass of the people. + +Or consider the advance of the science on its practical side. A hundred +years ago it used to be supposed that fever could be cured by the +letting of blood; now we know positively that it cannot. Even seventy +years ago it was thought that fever was curable by the administration of +sedative drugs; now we know that it isn't. For the matter of that, as +recently as thirty years ago, doctors thought that they could heal a +fever by means of low diet and the application of ice; now they are +absolutely certain that they cannot. This instance shows the steady +progress made in the treatment of fever. But there has been the same +cheering advance all along the line. Take rheumatism. A few generations +ago people with rheumatism used to have to carry round potatoes in their +pockets as a means of cure. Now the doctors allow them to carry +absolutely anything they like. They may go round with their pockets full +of water-melons if they wish to. It makes no difference. Or take the +treatment of epilepsy. It used to be supposed that the first thing to do +in sudden attacks of this kind was to unfasten the patient's collar and +let him breathe; at present, on the contrary, many doctors consider it +better to button up the patient's collar and let him choke. + +In only one respect has there been a decided lack of progress in the +domain of medicine, that is in the time it takes to become a qualified +practitioner. In the good old days a man was turned out thoroughly +equipped after putting in two winter sessions at a college and spending +his summers in running logs for a sawmill. Some of the students were +turned out even sooner. Nowadays it takes anywhere from five to eight +years to become a doctor. Of course, one is willing to grant that our +young men are growing stupider and lazier every year. This fact will be +corroborated at once by any man over fifty years of age. But even when +this is said it seems odd that a man should study eight years now to +learn what he used to acquire in eight months. + +However, let that go. The point I want to develop is that the modern +doctor's business is an extremely simple one, which could be acquired in +about two weeks. This is the way it is done. + +The patient enters the consulting-room. "Doctor," he says, "I have a bad +pain." "Where is it?" "Here." "Stand up," says the doctor, "and put your +arms up above your head." Then the doctor goes behind the patient and +strikes him a powerful blow in the back. "Do you feel that," he says. "I +do," says the patient. Then the doctor turns suddenly and lets him have +a left hook under the heart. "Can you feel that," he says viciously, as +the patient falls over on the sofa in a heap. "Get up," says the doctor, +and counts ten. The patient rises. The doctor looks him over very +carefully without speaking, and then suddenly fetches him a blow in the +stomach that doubles him up speechless. The doctor walks over to the +window and reads the morning paper for a while. Presently he turns and +begins to mutter more to himself than the patient. "Hum!" he says, +"there's a slight anaesthesia of the tympanum." "Is that so?" says the +patient, in an agony of fear. "What can I do about it, doctor?" "Well," +says the doctor, "I want you to keep very quiet; you'll have to go to +bed and stay there and keep quiet." In reality, of course, the doctor +hasn't the least idea what is wrong with the man; but he DOES know that +if he will go to bed and keep quiet, awfully quiet, he'll either get +quietly well again or else die a quiet death. Meantime, if the doctor +calls every morning and thumps and beats him, he can keep the patient +submissive and perhaps force him to confess what is wrong with him. + +"What about diet, doctor?" says the patient, completely cowed. + +The answer to this question varies very much. It depends on how the +doctor is feeling and whether it is long since he had a meal himself. If +it is late in the morning and the doctor is ravenously hungry, he says: +"Oh, eat plenty, don't be afraid of it; eat meat, vegetables, starch, +glue, cement, anything you like." But if the doctor has just had lunch +and if his breathing is short-circuited with huckleberry-pie, he says +very firmly: "No, I don't want you to eat anything at all: absolutely +not a bite; it won't hurt you, a little self-denial in the matter of +eating is the best thing in the world." + +"And what about drinking?" Again the doctor's answer varies. He may say: +"Oh, yes, you might drink a glass of lager now and then, or, if you +prefer it, a gin and soda or a whisky and Apollinaris, and I think +before going to bed I'd take a hot Scotch with a couple of lumps of +white sugar and bit of lemon-peel in it and a good grating of nutmeg on +the top." The doctor says this with real feeling, and his eye glistens +with the pure love of his profession. But if, on the other hand, the +doctor has spent the night before at a little gathering of medical +friends, he is very apt to forbid the patient to touch alcohol in any +shape, and to dismiss the subject with great severity. + +Of course, this treatment in and of itself would appear too transparent, +and would fail to inspire the patient with a proper confidence. But +nowadays this element is supplied by the work of the analytical +laboratory. Whatever is wrong with the patient, the doctor insists on +snipping off parts and pieces and extracts of him and sending them +mysteriously away to be analysed. He cuts off a lock of the patient's +hair, marks it, "Mr. Smith's Hair, October, 1910." Then he clips off the +lower part of the ear, and wraps it in paper, and labels it, "Part of +Mr. Smith's Ear, October, 1910." Then he looks the patient up and down, +with the scissors in his hand, and if he sees any likely part of him he +clips it off and wraps it up. Now this, oddly enough, is the very thing +that fills the patient up with that sense of personal importance which +is worth paying for. "Yes," says the bandaged patient, later in the day +to a group of friends much impressed, "the doctor thinks there may be a +slight anaesthesia of the prognosis, but he's sent my ear to New York +and my appendix to Baltimore and a lock of my hair to the editors of all +the medical journals, and meantime I am to keep very quiet and not exert +myself beyond drinking a hot Scotch with lemon and nutmeg every +half-hour." With that he sinks back faintly on his cushions, luxuriously +happy. + +And yet, isn't it funny? + +You and I and the rest of us--even if we know all this--as soon as we +have a pain within us, rush for a doctor as fast as a hack can take us. +Yes, personally, I even prefer an ambulance with a bell on it. It's more +soothing. + + + + +_The New Food_ + + +I see from the current columns of the daily press that "Professor Plumb, +of the University of Chicago, has just invented a highly concentrated +form of food. All the essential nutritive elements are put together in +the form of pellets, each of which contains from one to two hundred +times as much nourishment as an ounce of an ordinary article of diet. +These pellets, diluted with water, will form all that is necessary to +support life. The professor looks forward confidently to revolutionizing +the present food system." + +Now this kind of thing may be all very well in its way, but it is going +to have its drawbacks as well. In the bright future anticipated by +Professor Plumb, we can easily imagine such incidents as the following: + +The smiling family were gathered round the hospitable board. The table +was plenteously laid with a soup-plate in front of each beaming child, a +bucket of hot water before the radiant mother, and at the head of the +board the Christmas dinner of the happy home, warmly covered by a +thimble and resting on a poker chip. The expectant whispers of the +little ones were hushed as the father, rising from his chair, lifted the +thimble and disclosed a small pill of concentrated nourishment on the +chip before him. Christmas turkey, cranberry sauce, plum pudding, mince +pie--it was all there, all jammed into that little pill and only waiting +to expand. Then the father with deep reverence, and a devout eye +alternating between the pill and heaven, lifted his voice in a +benediction. + +At this moment there was an agonized cry from the mother. + +"Oh, Henry, quick! Baby has snatched the pill!" It was too true. Dear +little Gustavus Adolphus, the golden-haired baby boy, had grabbed the +whole Christmas dinner off the poker chip and bolted it. Three hundred +and fifty pounds of concentrated nourishment passed down the oesophagus +of the unthinking child. + +"Clap him on the back!" cried the distracted mother. "Give him water!" + +The idea was fatal. The water striking the pill caused it to expand. +There was a dull rumbling sound and then, with an awful bang, Gustavus +Adolphus exploded into fragments! + +And when they gathered the little corpse together, the baby lips were +parted in a lingering smile that could only be worn by a child who had +eaten thirteen Christmas dinners. + + + + +_A New Pathology_ + + +It has long been vaguely understood that the condition of a man's +clothes has a certain effect upon the health of both body and mind. The +well-known proverb, "Clothes make the man" has its origin in a general +recognition of the powerful influence of the habiliments in their +reaction upon the wearer. The same truth may be observed in the facts of +everyday life. On the one hand we remark the bold carriage and mental +vigour of a man attired in a new suit of clothes; on the other hand we +note the melancholy features of him who is conscious of a posterior +patch, or the haunted face of one suffering from internal loss of +buttons. But while common observation thus gives us a certain +familiarity with a few leading facts regarding the ailments and +influence of clothes, no attempt has as yet been made to reduce our +knowledge to a systematic form. At the same time the writer feels that a +valuable addition might be made to the science of medicine in this +direction. The numerous diseases which are caused by this fatal +influence should receive a scientific analysis, and their treatment be +included among the principles of the healing art. The diseases of the +clothes may roughly be divided into medical cases and surgical cases, +while these again fall into classes according to the particular garment +through which the sufferer is attacked. + + + MEDICAL CASES + +Probably no article of apparel is so liable to a diseased condition as +the trousers. It may be well, therefore, to treat first those maladies +to which they are subject. + +I. Contractio Pantalunae, or Shortening of the Legs of the Trousers, an +extremely painful malady most frequently found in the growing youth. The +first symptom is the appearance of a yawning space (lacuna) above the +boots, accompanied by an acute sense of humiliation and a morbid +anticipation of mockery. The application of treacle to the boots, +although commonly recommended, may rightly be condemned as too drastic a +remedy. The use of boots reaching to the knee, to be removed only at +night, will afford immediate relief. In connection with Contractio is +often found-- + +II. Inflatio Genu, or Bagging of the Knees of the Trousers, a disease +whose symptoms are similar to those above. The patient shows an aversion +to the standing posture, and, in acute cases, if the patient be +compelled to stand, the head is bent and the eye fixed with painful +rigidity upon the projecting blade formed at the knee of the trousers. + +In both of the above diseases anything that can be done to free the mind +of the patient from a morbid sense of his infirmity will do much to +improve the general tone of the system. + +III. Oases, or Patches, are liable to break out anywhere on the +trousers, and range in degree of gravity from those of a trifling nature +to those of a fatal character. The most distressing cases are those +where the patch assumes a different colour from that of the trousers +(dissimilitas coloris). In this instance the mind of the patient is +found to be in a sadly aberrated condition. A speedy improvement may, +however, be effected by cheerful society, books, flowers, and, above +all, by a complete change. + +IV. The overcoat is attacked by no serious disorders, except-- + +Phosphorescentia, or Glistening, a malady which indeed may often be +observed to affect the whole system. It is caused by decay of tissue +from old age and is generally aggravated by repeated brushing. A +peculiar feature of the complaint is the lack of veracity on the part of +the patient in reference to the cause of his uneasiness. Another +invariable symptom is his aversion to outdoor exercise; under various +pretexts, which it is the duty of his medical adviser firmly to combat, +he will avoid even a gentle walk in the streets. + +V. Of the waistcoat science recognizes but one disease-- + +Porriggia, an affliction caused by repeated spilling of porridge. It is +generally harmless, chiefly owing to the mental indifference of the +patient. It can be successfully treated by repeated fomentations of +benzine. + +VI. Mortificatio Tilis, or Greenness of the Hat, is a disease often +found in connection with Phosphorescentia (mentioned above), and +characterized by the same aversion to outdoor life. + +VII. Sterilitas, or Loss of Fur, is another disease of the hat, +especially prevalent in winter. It is not accurately known whether this +is caused by a falling out of the fur or by a cessation of growth. In +all diseases of the hat the mind of the patient is greatly depressed and +his countenance stamped with the deepest gloom. He is particularly +sensitive in regard to questions as to the previous history of the hat. + +Want of space precludes the mention of minor diseases, such as-- + +VIII. Odditus Soccorum, or oddness of the socks, a thing in itself +trifling, but of an alarming nature if met in combination with +Contractio Pantalunae. Cases are found where the patient, possibly on +the public platform or at a social gathering, is seized with a +consciousness of the malady so suddenly as to render medical assistance +futile. + + + SURGICAL CASES + +It is impossible to mention more than a few of the most typical cases of +diseases of this sort. + +I. Explosio, or Loss of Buttons, is the commonest malady demanding +surgical treatment. It consists of a succession of minor fractures, +possibly internal, which at first excite no alarm. A vague sense of +uneasiness is presently felt, which often leads the patient to seek +relief in the string habit--a habit which, if unduly indulged in, may +assume the proportions of a ruling passion. The use of sealing-wax, +while admirable as a temporary remedy for Explosio, should never be +allowed to gain a permanent hold upon the system. There is no doubt that +a persistent indulgence in the string habit, or the constant use of +sealing-wax, will result in-- + +II. Fractura Suspendorum, or Snapping of the Braces, which amounts to a +general collapse of the system. The patient is usually seized with a +severe attack of explosio, followed by a sudden sinking feeling and +sense of loss. A sound constitution may rally from the shock, but a +system undermined by the string habit invariably succumbs. + +III. Sectura Pantalunae, or Ripping of the Trousers, is generally caused +by sitting upon warm beeswax or leaning against a hook. In the case of +the very young it is not unfrequently accompanied by a distressing +suppuration of the shirt. This, however, is not remarked in adults. The +malady is rather mental than bodily, the mind of the patient being +racked by a keen sense of indignity and a feeling of unworthiness. The +only treatment is immediate isolation, with a careful stitching of the +affected part. + +In conclusion, it may be stated that at the first symptom of disease the +patient should not hesitate to put himself in the hands of a +professional tailor. In so brief a compass as the present article the +discussion has of necessity been rather suggestive than exhaustive. Much +yet remains to be done, and the subject opens wide to the inquiring eye. +The writer will, however, feel amply satisfied if this brief outline may +help to direct the attention of medical men to what is yet an unexplored +field. + + + + +_The Poet Answered_ + + +Dear sir: + +In answer to your repeated questions and requests which have appeared +for some years past in the columns of the rural press, I beg to submit +the following solutions of your chief difficulties:-- + +Topic I.--You frequently ask, where are the friends of your childhood, +and urge that they shall be brought back to you. As far as I am able to +learn, those of your friends who are not in jail are still right there +in your native village. You point out that they were wont to share your +gambols. If so, you are certainly entitled to have theirs now. + +Topic II.--You have taken occasion to say: + + "Give me not silk, nor rich attire, Nor gold, nor jewels rare." + +But, my dear fellow, this is preposterous. Why, these are the very +things I had bought for you. If you won't take any of these, I shall +have to give you factory cotton and cordwood. + +Topic III.--You also ask, "How fares my love across the sea?" +Intermediate, I presume. She would hardly travel steerage. + +Topic IV.--"Why was I born? Why should I breathe?" Here I quite agree +with you. I don't think you ought to breathe. + +Topic V.--You demand that I shall show you the man whose soul is dead +and then mark him. I am awfully sorry; the man was around here all day +yesterday, and if I had only known I could easily have marked him so +that we could pick him out again. + +Topic VI.--I notice that you frequently say, "Oh, for the sky of your +native land." Oh, for it, by all means, if you wish. But remember that +you already owe for a great deal. + +Topic VII.--On more than one occasion you wish to be informed, "What +boots it, that you idly dream?" Nothing boots it at present--a fact, +sir, which ought to afford you the highest gratification. + + + + +_The Force of Statistics_ + + +They were sitting on a seat of the car, immediately in front of me. I +was consequently able to hear all that they were saying. They were +evidently strangers who had dropped into a conversation. They both had +the air of men who considered themselves profoundly interesting as +minds. It was plain that each laboured under the impression that he was +a ripe thinker. + +One had just been reading a book which lay in his lap. + +"I've been reading some very interesting statistics," he was saying to +the other thinker. + +"Ah, statistics" said the other; "wonderful things, sir, statistics; +very fond of them myself." + +"I find, for instance," the first man went on, "that a drop of water is +filled with little ... with little ... I forget just what you call them +... little--er--things, every cubic inch containing--er--containing ... +let me see...." + +"Say a million," said the other thinker, encouragingly. + +"Yes, a million, or possibly a billion ... but at any rate, ever so many +of them." + +"Is it possible?" said the other. "But really, you know there are +wonderful things in the world. Now, coal ... take coal...." + +"Very, good," said his friend, "let us take coal," settling back in his +seat with the air of an intellect about to feed itself. + +"Do you know that every ton of coal burnt in an engine will drag a train +of cars as long as ... I forget the exact length, but say a train of +cars of such and such a length, and weighing, say so much ... from ... +from ... hum! for the moment the exact distance escapes me ... drag it +from...." + +"From here to the moon," suggested the other. + +"Ah, very likely; yes, from here to the moon. Wonderful, isn't it?" + +"But the most stupendous calculation of all, sir, is in regard to the +distance from the earth to the sun. Positively, sir, a +cannon-ball--er--fired at the sun...." + +"Fired at the sun," nodded the other, approvingly, as if he had often +seen it done. + +"And travelling at the rate of ... of...." + +"Of three cents a mile," hinted the listener. + +"No, no, you misunderstand me,--but travelling at a fearful rate, simply +fearful, sir, would take a hundred million--no, a hundred billion--in +short would take a scandalously long time in getting there--" + +At this point I could stand no more. I interrupted--"Provided it were +fired from Philadelphia," I said, and passed into the smoking-car. + + + + +_Men Who have Shaved Me_ + + +A barber is by nature and inclination a sport. He can tell you at what +exact hour the ball game of the day is to begin, can foretell its issue +without losing a stroke of the razor, and can explain the points of +inferiority of all the players, as compared with better men that he has +personally seen elsewhere, with the nicety of a professional. He can do +all this, and then stuff the customer's mouth with a soap-brush, and +leave him while he goes to the other end of the shop to make a side bet +with one of the other barbers on the outcome of the Autumn Handicap. In +the barber-shops they knew the result of the Jeffries-Johnson +prize-fight long before it happened. It is on information of this kind +that they make their living. The performance of shaving is only +incidental to it. Their real vocation in life is imparting information. +To the barber the outside world is made up of customers, who are to be +thrown into chairs, strapped, manacled, gagged with soap, and then given +such necessary information on the athletic events of the moment as will +carry them through the business hours of the day without open disgrace. + +As soon as the barber has properly filled up the customer with +information of this sort, he rapidly removes his whiskers as a sign that +the man is now fit to talk to, and lets him out of the chair. + +The public has grown to understand the situation. Every reasonable +business man is willing to sit and wait half an hour for a shave which +he could give himself in three minutes, because he knows that if he goes +down town without understanding exactly why Chicago lost two games +straight he will appear an ignoramus. + +At times, of course, the barber prefers to test his customer with a +question or two. He gets him pinned in the chair, with his head well +back, covers the customer's face with soap, and then planting his knee +on his chest and holding his hand firmly across the customer's mouth, to +prevent all utterance and to force him to swallow the soap, he asks: +"Well, what did you think of the Detroit-St. Louis game yesterday?" This +is not really meant for a question at all. It is only equivalent to +saying: "Now, you poor fool, I'll bet you don't know anything about the +great events of your country at all." There is a gurgle in the +customer's throat as if he were trying to answer, and his eyes are seen +to move sideways, but the barber merely thrusts the soap-brush into +each eye, and if any motion still persists, he breathes gin and +peppermint over the face, till all sign of life is extinct. Then he +talks the game over in detail with the barber at the next chair, each +leaning across an inanimate thing extended under steaming towels that +was once a man. + +To know all these things barbers have to be highly educated. It is true +that some of the greatest barbers that have ever lived have begun as +uneducated, illiterate men, and by sheer energy and indomitable industry +have forced their way to the front. But these are exceptions. To succeed +nowadays it is practically necessary to be a college graduate. As the +courses at Harvard and Yale have been found too superficial, there are +now established regular Barbers' Colleges, where a bright young man can +learn as much in three weeks as he would be likely to know after three +years at Harvard. The courses at these colleges cover such things as: +(1) Physiology, including Hair and its Destruction, The Origin and +Growth of Whiskers, Soap in its Relation to Eyesight; (2) Chemistry, +including lectures on Florida Water; and How to Make it out of Sardine +Oil; (3) Practical Anatomy, including The Scalp and How to Lift it, The +Ears and How to Remove them, and, as the Major Course for advanced +students, The Veins of the Face and how to open and close them at will +by the use of alum. + +The education of the customer is, as I have said, the chief part of the +barber's vocation. But it must be remembered that the incidental +function of removing his whiskers in order to mark him as a +well-informed man is also of importance, and demands long practice and +great natural aptitude. In the barbers' shops of modern cities shaving +has been brought to a high degree of perfection. A good barber is not +content to remove the whiskers of his client directly and immediately. +He prefers to cook him first. He does this by immersing the head in hot +water and covering the victim's face with steaming towels until he has +him boiled to a nice pink. From time to time the barber removes the +towels and looks at the face to see if it is yet boiled pink enough for +his satisfaction. If it is not, he replaces the towels again and jams +them down firmly with his hand until the cooking is finished. The final +result, however, amply justifies this trouble, and the well-boiled +customer only needs the addition of a few vegetables on the side to +present an extremely appetizing appearance. + +During the process of the shave, it is customary for the barber to apply +the particular kind of mental torture known as the third degree. This is +done by terrorizing the patient as to the very evident and proximate +loss of all his hair and whiskers, which the barber is enabled by his +experience to foretell. "Your hair," he says, very sadly and +sympathetically, "is all falling out. Better let me give you a shampoo?" +"No." "Let me singe your hair to close up the follicles?" "No." "Let me +plug up the ends of your hair with sealing-wax, it's the only thing that +will save it for you?" "No." "Let me rub an egg on your scalp?" "No." +"Let me squirt a lemon on your eyebrows?" "No." + +The barber sees that he is dealing with a man of determination, and he +warms to his task. He bends low and whispers into the prostrate ear: +"You've got a good many grey hairs coming in; better let me give you an +application of Hairocene, only cost you half a dollar?" "No." "Your +face," he whispers again, with a soft, caressing voice, "is all covered +with wrinkles; better let me rub some of this Rejuvenator into the +face." + +This process is continued until one of two things happens. Either the +customer is obdurate, and staggers to his feet at last and gropes his +way out of the shop with the knowledge that he is a wrinkled, +prematurely senile man, whose wicked life is stamped upon his face, and +whose unstopped hair-ends and failing follicles menace him with the +certainty of complete baldness within twenty-four hours--or else, as in +nearly all instances, he succumbs. In the latter case, immediately on +his saying "yes" there is a shout of exultation from the barber, a roar +of steaming water, and within a moment two barbers have grabbed him by +the feet and thrown him under the tap, and, in spite of his struggles, +are giving him the Hydro-magnetic treatment. When he emerges from their +hands, he steps out of the shop looking as if he had been varnished. + +But even the application of the Hydro-magnetic and the Rejuvenator do +not by any means exhaust the resources of the up-to-date barber. He +prefers to perform on the customer a whole variety of subsidiary +services not directly connected with shaving, but carried on during the +process of the shave. + +In a good, up-to-date shop, while one man is shaving the customer, +others black his boots; brush his clothes, darn his socks, point his +nails, enamel his teeth, polish his eyes, and alter the shape of any of +his joints which they think unsightly. During this operation they often +stand seven or eight deep round a customer, fighting for a chance to get +at him. + +All of these remarks apply to barber-shops in the city, and not to +country places. In the country there is only one barber and one customer +at a time. The thing assumes the aspect of a straight-out, +rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can fight, with a few spectators +sitting round the shop to see fair play. In the city they can shave a +man without removing any of his clothes. But in the country, where the +customer insists on getting the full value for his money, they remove +the collar and necktie, the coat and the waistcoat, and, for a really +good shave and hair-cut, the customer is stripped to the waist. The +barber can then take a rush at him from the other side of the room, and +drive the clippers up the full length of the spine, so as to come at the +heavier hair on the back of the head with the impact of a lawn-mower +driven into long grass. + + + + +_Getting the Thread of It_ + + +Have you ever had a man try to explain to you what happened in a book as +far as he has read? It is a most instructive thing. Sinclair, the man +who shares my rooms with me, made such an attempt the other night. I had +come in cold and tired from a walk and found him full of excitement, +with a bulky magazine in one hand and a paper-cutter gripped in the +other. + +"Say, here's a grand story," he burst out as soon as I came in; "it's +great! most fascinating thing I ever read. Wait till I read you some of +it. I'll just tell you what has happened up to where I am--you'll easily +catch the thread of it--and then we'll finish it together." + +I wasn't feeling in a very responsive mood, but I saw no way to stop +him, so I merely said, "All right, throw me your thread, I'll catch it." + +"Well," Sinclair began with great animation, "this count gets this +letter...." + +"Hold on," I interrupted, "what count gets what letter?" + +"Oh, the count it's about, you know. He gets this letter from this +Porphirio." + +"From which Porphirio?" + +"Why, Porphirio sent the letter, don't you see, he sent it," Sinclair +exclaimed a little impatiently--"sent it through Demonio and told him to +watch for him with him, and kill him when he got him." + +"Oh, see here!" I broke in, "who is to meet who, and who is to get +stabbed?" + +"They're going to stab Demonio." + +"And who brought the letter?" + +"Demonio." + +"Well, now, Demonio must be a clam! What did he bring it for?" + +"Oh, but he don't know what's in it, that's just the slick part of it," +and Sinclair began to snigger to himself at the thought of it. "You see, +this Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere...." + +"Stop right there," I said. "What's a Condottiere?" + +"It's a sort of brigand. He, you understand, was in league with this Fra +Fraliccolo...." + +A suspicion flashed across my mind. "Look here," I said firmly, "if the +scene of this story is laid in the Highlands, I refuse to listen to it. +Call it off." + +"No, no," Sinclair answered quickly, "that's all right. It's laid in +Italy ... time of Pius the something. He comes in--say, but he's great! +so darned crafty. It's him, you know, that persuades this +Franciscan...." + +"Pause," I said, "what Franciscan?" + +"Fra Fraliccolo, of course," Sinclair said snappishly. "You see, Pio +tries to...." + +"Whoa!" I said, "who is Pio?" + +"Oh, hang it all, Pio is Italian, it's short for Pius. He tries to get +Fra Fraliccolo and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere to steal the document +from ... let me see; what was he called?...Oh, yes ... from the Dog of +Venice, so that ... or ... no, hang it, you put me out, that's all +wrong. It's the other way round. Pio wasn't clever at all; he's a +regular darned fool. It's the Dog that's crafty. By Jove, he's fine," +Sinclair went on; warming up to enthusiasm again, "he just does anything +he wants. He makes this Demonio (Demonio is one of those hirelings, you +know, he's the tool of the Dog)...makes him steal the document off +Porphirio, and...." + +"But how does he get him to do that?" I asked. + +"Oh, the Dog has Demonio pretty well under his thumb, so he makes +Demonio scheme round till he gets old Pio--er--gets him under his thumb, +and then, of course, Pio thinks that Porphirio--I mean he thinks that he +has Porphirio--er--has him under his thumb." + +"Half a minute, Sinclair," I said, "who did you say was under the Dog's +thumb?" + +"Demonio." + +"Thanks. I was mixed in the thumbs. Go on." + +"Well, just when things are like this...." + +"Like what?" + +"Like I said." + +"All right." + +"Who should turn up and thwart the whole scheme, but this Signorina +Tarara in her domino...." + +"Hully Gee!" I said, "you make my head ache. What the deuce does she +come in her domino for?" + +"Why, to thwart it." + +"To thwart what?" + +"Thwart the whole darned thing," Sinclair exclaimed emphatically. + +"But can't she thwart it without her domino?" + +"I should think not! You see, if it hadn't been for the domino, the Dog +would have spotted her quick as a wink. Only when he sees her in the +domino with this rose in her hair, he thinks she must be Lucia dell' +Esterolla." + +"Say, he fools himself, doesn't he? Who's this last girl?" + +"Lucia? Oh, she's great!" Sinclair said. "She's one of those Southern +natures, you know, full of--er--full of...." + +"Full of fun," I suggested. + +"Oh, hang it all, don't make fun of it! Well, anyhow, she's sister, you +understand, to the Contessa Carantarata, and that's why Fra Fraliccolo, +or ... hold on, that's not it, no, no, she's not sister to anybody. +She's cousin, that's it; or, anyway, she thinks she is cousin to Fra +Fraliccolo himself, and that's why Pio tries to stab Fra Fraliccolo." + +"Oh, yes," I assented, "naturally he would." + +"Ah," Sinclair said hopefully, getting his paper-cutter ready to cut the +next pages, "you begin to get the thread now, don't you?" + +"Oh, fine!" I said. "The people in it are the Dog and Pio, and Carlo +Carlotti the Condottiere, and those others that we spoke of." + +"That's right," Sinclair said. "Of course, there are more still that I +can tell you about if...." + +"Oh, never mind," I said, "I'll work along with those, they're a pretty +representative crowd. Then Porphirio is under Pio's thumb, and Pio is +under Demonio's thumb, and the Dog is crafty, and Lucia is full of +something all the time. Oh, I've got a mighty clear idea of it," I +concluded bitterly. + +"Oh, you've got it," Sinclair said, "I knew you'd like it. Now we'll go +on. I'll just finish to the bottom of my page and then I'll go on +aloud." + +He ran his eyes rapidly over the lines till he came to the bottom of the +page, then he cut the leaves and turned over. I saw his eye rest on the +half-dozen lines that confronted him on the next page with an expression +of utter consternation. + +"Well, I will be cursed!" he said at length. + +"What's the matter?" I said gently, with a great joy at my heart. + +"This infernal thing's a serial," he gasped, as he pointed at the words, +"To be continued," "and that's all there is in this number." + + + + +_Telling His Faults_ + + +"Oh, do, Mr. Sapling," said the beautiful girl at the summer hotel, "do +let me read the palm of your hand! I can tell you all your faults." + +Mr. Sapling gave an inarticulate gurgle and a roseate flush swept over +his countenance as he surrendered his palm to the grasp of the fair +enchantress. + +"Oh, you're just full of faults, just full of them, Mr. Sapling!" she +cried. + +Mr. Sapling looked it. + +"To begin with," said the beautiful girl, slowly and reflectingly, "you +are dreadfully cynical: you hardly believe in anything at all, and +you've utterly no faith in us poor women." + +The feeble smile that had hitherto kindled the features of Mr. Sapling +into a ray of chastened imbecility, was distorted in an effort at +cynicism. + +"Then your next fault is that you are too determined; much too +determined. When once you have set your will on any object, you crush +every obstacle under your feet." + +Mr. Sapling looked meekly down at his tennis shoes, but began to feel +calmer, more lifted up. Perhaps he had been all these things without +knowing it. + +"Then you are cold and sarcastic." + +Mr. Sapling attempted to look cold and sarcastic. He succeeded in a rude +leer. + +"And you're horribly world-weary, you care for nothing. You have drained +philosophy to the dregs, and scoff at everything." + +Mr. Sapling's inner feeling was that from now on he would simply scoff +and scoff and scoff. + +"Your only redeeming quality is that you are generous. You have tried to +kill even this, but cannot. Yes," concluded the beautiful girl, "those +are your faults, generous still, but cold, cynical, and relentless. Good +night, Mr. Sapling." + +And resisting all entreaties the beautiful girl passed from the verandah +of the hotel and vanished. + +And when later in the evening the brother of the beautiful girl borrowed +Mr. Sapling's tennis racket, and his bicycle for a fortnight, and the +father of the beautiful girl got Sapling to endorse his note for a +couple of hundreds, and her uncle Zephas borrowed his bedroom candle and +used his razor to cut up a plug of tobacco, Mr. Sapling felt proud to be +acquainted with the family. + + + + +_Winter Pastimes_ + + +It is in the depth of winter, when the intense cold renders it desirable +to stay at home, that the really Pleasant Family is wont to serve +invitations upon a few friends to spend a Quiet Evening. + +It is at these gatherings that that gay thing, the indoor winter game, +becomes rampant. It is there that the old euchre deck and the staring +domino become fair and beautiful things; that the rattle of the Loto +counter rejoices the heart, that the old riddle feels the sap stirring +in its limbs again, and the amusing spilikin completes the mental ruin +of the jaded guest. Then does the Jolly Maiden Aunt propound the query: +What is the difference between an elephant and a silk hat? Or declare +that her first is a vowel, her second a preposition, and her third an +archipelago. It is to crown such a quiet evening, and to give the +finishing stroke to those of the visitors who have not escaped early, +with a fierce purpose of getting at the saloons before they have time to +close, that the indoor game or family reservoir of fun is dragged from +its long sleep. It is spread out upon the table. Its paper of directions +is unfolded. Its cards, its counters, its pointers and its markers are +distributed around the table, and the visitor forces a look of reckless +pleasure upon his face. Then the "few simple directions" are read aloud +by the Jolly Aunt, instructing each player to challenge the player +holding the golden letter corresponding to the digit next in order, to +name a dead author beginning with X, failing which the player must +declare himself in fault, and pay the forfeit of handing over to the +Jolly Aunt his gold watch and all his money, or having a hot plate put +down his neck. + +With a view to bringing some relief to the guests at entertainments of +this kind, I have endeavoured to construct one or two little winter +pastimes of a novel character. They are quite inexpensive, and as they +need no background of higher arithmetic or ancient history, they are +within reach of the humblest intellect. Here is one of them. It is +called Indoor Football, or Football without a Ball. + +In this game any number of players, from fifteen to thirty, seat +themselves in a heap on any one player, usually the player next to the +dealer. They then challenge him to get up, while one player stands with +a stop-watch in his hand and counts forty seconds. Should the first +player fail to rise before forty seconds are counted, the player with +the watch declares him suffocated. This is called a "Down" and counts +one. The player who was the Down is then leant against the wall; his +wind is supposed to be squeezed out. The player called the referee then +blows a whistle and the players select another player and score a down +off him. While the player is supposed to be down, all the rest must +remain seated as before, and not rise from him until the referee by +counting forty and blowing his whistle announces that in his opinion the +other player is stifled. He is then leant against the wall beside the +first player. When the whistle again blows the player nearest the +referee strikes him behind the right ear. This is a "Touch," and counts +two. + +It is impossible, of course, to give all the rules in detail. I might +add, however, that while it counts TWO to strike the referee, to kick +him counts THREE. To break his arm or leg counts FOUR, and to kill him +outright is called GRAND SLAM and counts one game. + +Here is another little thing that I have worked out, which is superior +to parlour games in that it combines their intense excitement with sound +out-of-door exercise. + +It is easily comprehended, and can be played by any number of players, +old and young. It requires no other apparatus than a trolley car of the +ordinary type, a mile or two of track, and a few thousand volts of +electricity. It is called: + + The Suburban Trolley Car + A Holiday Game for Old and Young. + +The chief part in the game is taken by two players who station +themselves one at each end of the car, and who adopt some distinctive +costumes to indicate that they are "it." The other players occupy the +body of the car, or take up their position at intervals along the track. + +The object of each player should be to enter the car as stealthily as +possible in such a way as to escape the notice of the players in +distinctive dress. Should he fail to do this he must pay the philopena +or forfeit. Of these there are two: philopena No. 1, the payment of five +cents, and philopena No. 2, being thrown off the car by the neck. Each +player may elect which philopena he will pay. Any player who escapes +paying the philopena scores one. + +The players who are in the car may elect to adopt a standing attitude, +or to seat themselves, but no player may seat himself in the lap of +another without the second player's consent. The object of those who +elect to remain standing is to place their feet upon the toes of those +who sit; when they do this they score. The object of those who elect to +sit is to elude the feet of the standing players. Much merriment is thus +occasioned. + +The player in distinctive costume at the front of the car controls a +crank, by means of which he is enabled to bring the car to a sudden +stop, or to cause it to plunge violently forward. His aim in so doing is +to cause all the standing players to fall over backward. Every time he +does this he scores. For this purpose he is generally in collusion with +the other player in distinctive costume, whose business it is to let him +know by a series of bells and signals when the players are not looking, +and can be easily thrown down. A sharp fall of this sort gives rise to +no end of banter and good-natured drollery, directed against the two +players who are "it." + +Should a player who is thus thrown backward save himself from falling by +sitting down in the lap of a female player, he scores one. Any player +who scores in this manner is entitled to remain seated while he may +count six, after which he must remove himself or pay philopena No. 2. + +Should the player who controls the crank perceive a player upon the +street desirous of joining in the game by entering the car, his object +should be: primo, to run over him and kill him; secundo, to kill him by +any other means in his power; tertio, to let him into the car, but to +exact the usual philopena. + +Should a player, in thus attempting to get on the car from without, +become entangled in the machinery, the player controlling the crank +shouts "huff!" and the car is supposed to pass over him. All within the +car score one. + +A fine spice of the ludicrous may be added to the game by each player +pretending that he has a destination or stopping-place, where he would +wish to alight. It now becomes the aim of the two players who are "it" +to carry him past his point. A player who is thus carried beyond his +imaginary stopping-place must feign a violent passion, and imitate angry +gesticulations. He may, in addition, feign a great age or a painful +infirmity, which will be found to occasion the most convulsive fun for +the other players in the game. + +These are the main outlines of this most amusing pastime. Many other +agreeable features may, of course, be readily introduced by persons of +humour and imagination. + + + + +_Number Fifty-Six_ + + +What I narrate was told me one winter's evening by my friend Ah-Yen in +the little room behind his laundry. Ah-Yen is a quiet little celestial +with a grave and thoughtful face, and that melancholy contemplative +disposition so often noticed in his countrymen. Between myself and +Ah-Yen there exists a friendship of some years' standing, and we spend +many a long evening in the dimly lighted room behind his shop, smoking a +dreamy pipe together and plunged in silent meditation. I am chiefly +attracted to my friend by the highly imaginative cast of his mind, which +is, I believe, a trait of the Eastern character and which enables him to +forget to a great extent the sordid cares of his calling in an inner +life of his own creation. Of the keen, analytical side of his mind, I +was in entire ignorance until the evening of which I write. + +The room where we sat was small and dingy, with but little furniture +except our chairs and the little table at which we filled and arranged +our pipes, and was lighted only by a tallow candle. There were a few +pictures on the walls, for the most part rude prints cut from the +columns of the daily press and pasted up to hide the bareness of the +room. Only one picture was in any way noticeable, a portrait admirably +executed in pen and ink. The face was that of a young man, a very +beautiful face, but one of infinite sadness. I had long been aware, +although I know not how, that Ah-Yen had met with a great sorrow, and +had in some way connected the fact with this portrait. I had always +refrained, however, from asking him about it, and it was not until the +evening in question that I knew its history. + +We had been smoking in silence for some time when Ah-Yen spoke. My +friend is a man of culture and wide reading, and his English is +consequently perfect in its construction; his speech is, of course, +marked by the lingering liquid accent of his country which I will not +attempt to reproduce. + +"I see," he said, "that you have been examining the portrait of my +unhappy friend, Fifty-Six. I have never yet told you of my bereavement, +but as to-night is the anniversary of his death, I would fain speak of +him for a while." + +Ah-Yen paused; I lighted my pipe afresh, and nodded to him to show that +I was listening. + +"I do not know," he went on, "at what precise time Fifty-Six came into +my life. I could indeed find it out by examining my books, but I have +never troubled to do so. Naturally I took no more interest in him at +first than in any other of my customers--less, perhaps, since he never +in the course of our connection brought his clothes to me himself but +always sent them by a boy. When I presently perceived that he was +becoming one of my regular customers, I allotted to him his number, +Fifty-Six, and began to speculate as to who and what he was. Before long +I had reached several conclusions in regard to my unknown client. The +quality of his linen showed me that, if not rich, he was at any rate +fairly well off. I could see that he was a young man of regular +Christian life, who went out into society to a certain extent; this I +could tell from his sending the same number of articles to the laundry, +from his washing always coming on Saturday night, and from the fact that +he wore a dress shirt about once a week. In disposition he was a modest, +unassuming fellow, for his collars were only two inches high." + +I stared at Ah-Yen in some amazement, the recent publications of a +favourite novelist had rendered me familiar with this process of +analytical reasoning, but I was prepared for no such revelations from my +Eastern friend. + +"When I first knew him," Ah-Yen went on, "Fifty-Six was a student at the +university. This, of course, I did not know for some time. I inferred +it, however, in the course of time, from his absence from town during +the four summer months, and from the fact that during the time of the +university examinations the cuffs of his shirts came to me covered with +dates, formulas, and propositions in geometry. I followed him with no +little interest through his university career. During the four years +which it lasted, I washed for him every week; my regular connection with +him and the insight which my observation gave me into the lovable +character of the man, deepened my first esteem into a profound affection +and I became most anxious for his success. I helped him at each +succeeding examination, as far as lay in my power, by starching his +shirts half-way to the elbow, so as to leave him as much room as +possible for annotations. My anxiety during the strain of his final +examination I will not attempt to describe. That Fifty-Six was +undergoing the great crisis of his academic career, I could infer from +the state of his handkerchiefs which, in apparent unconsciousness, he +used as pen-wipers during the final test. His conduct throughout the +examination bore witness to the moral development which had taken place +in his character during his career as an undergraduate; for the notes +upon his cuffs which had been so copious at his earlier examinations +were limited now to a few hints, and these upon topics so intricate as +to defy an ordinary memory. It was with a thrill of joy that I at last +received in his laundry bundle one Saturday early in June, a ruffled +dress shirt, the bosom of which was thickly spattered with the spillings +of the wine-cup, and realized that Fifty-Six had banqueted as a Bachelor +of Arts. + +"In the following winter the habit of wiping his pen upon his +handkerchief, which I had remarked during his final examination, became +chronic with him, and I knew that he had entered upon the study of law. +He worked hard during that year, and dress shirts almost disappeared +from his weekly bundle. It was in the following winter, the second year +of his legal studies, that the tragedy of his life began. I became aware +that a change had come over his laundry; from one, or at most two a +week, his dress shirts rose to four, and silk handkerchiefs began to +replace his linen ones. It dawned upon me that Fifty-Six was abandoning +the rigorous tenor of his student life and was going into society. I +presently perceived something more; Fifty-Six was in love. It was soon +impossible to doubt it. He was wearing seven shirts a week; linen +handkerchiefs disappeared from his laundry; his collars rose from two +inches to two and a quarter, and finally to two and a half. I have in my +possession one of his laundry lists of that period; a glance at it will +show the scrupulous care which he bestowed upon his person. Well do I +remember the dawning hopes of those days, alternating with the gloomiest +despair. Each Saturday I opened his bundle with a trembling eagerness to +catch the first signs of a return of his love. I helped my friend in +every way that I could. His shirts and collars were masterpieces of my +art, though my hand often shook with agitation as I applied the starch. +She was a brave noble girl, that I knew; her influence was elevating the +whole nature of Fifty-Six; until now he had had in his possession a +certain number of detached cuffs and false shirt-fronts. These he +discarded now,--at first the false shirt-fronts, scorning the very idea +of fraud, and after a time, in his enthusiasm, abandoning even the +cuffs. I cannot look back upon those bright happy days of courtship +without a sigh. + +"The happiness of Fifty-Six seemed to enter into and fill my whole life. +I lived but from Saturday to Saturday. The appearance of false +shirt-fronts would cast me to the lowest depths of despair; their +absence raised me to a pinnacle of hope. It was not till winter softened +into spring that Fifty-Six nerved himself to learn his fate. One +Saturday he sent me a new white waistcoat, a garment which had hitherto +been shunned by his modest nature, to prepare for his use. I bestowed +upon it all the resources of my art; I read his purpose in it. On the +Saturday following it was returned to me and, with tears of joy, I +marked where a warm little hand had rested fondly on the right shoulder, +and knew that Fifty-Six was the accepted lover of his sweetheart." + +Ah-Yen paused and sat for some time silent; his pipe had sputtered out +and lay cold in the hollow of his hand; his eye was fixed upon the wall +where the light and shadows shifted in the dull flickering of the +candle. At last he spoke again: + +"I will not dwell upon the happy days that ensued--days of gaudy summer +neckties and white waistcoats, of spotless shirts and lofty collars worn +but a single day by the fastidious lover. Our happiness seemed complete +and I asked no more from fate. Alas! it was not destined to continue! +When the bright days of summer were fading into autumn, I was grieved to +notice an occasional quarrel--only four shirts instead of seven, or the +reappearance of the abandoned cuffs and shirt-fronts. Reconciliations +followed, with tears of penitence upon the shoulder of the white +waistcoat, and the seven shirts came back. But the quarrels grew more +frequent and there came at times stormy scenes of passionate emotion +that left a track of broken buttons down the waistcoat. The shirts went +slowly down to three, then fell to two, and the collars of my unhappy +friend subsided to an inch and three-quarters. In vain I lavished my +utmost care upon Fifty-Six. It seemed to my tortured mind that the gloss +upon his shirts and collars would have melted a heart of stone. Alas! my +every effort at reconciliation seemed to fail. An awful month passed; +the false fronts and detached cuffs were all back again; the unhappy +lover seemed to glory in their perfidy. At last, one gloomy evening, I +found on opening his bundle that he had bought a stock of celluloids, +and my heart told me that she had abandoned him for ever. Of what my +poor friend suffered at this time, I can give you no idea; suffice it to +say that he passed from celluloid to a blue flannel shirt and from blue +to grey. The sight of a red cotton handkerchief in his wash at length +warned me that his disappointed love had unhinged his mind, and I feared +the worst. Then came an agonizing interval of three weeks during which +he sent me nothing, and after that came the last parcel that I ever +received from him an enormous bundle that seemed to contain all his +effects. In this, to my horror, I discovered one shirt the breast of +which was stained a deep crimson with his blood, and pierced by a ragged +hole that showed where a bullet had singed through into his heart. + +"A fortnight before, I remembered having heard the street boys crying +the news of an appalling suicide, and I know now that it must have been +he. After the first shock of my grief had passed, I sought to keep him +in my memory by drawing the portrait which hangs beside you. I have some +skill in the art, and I feel assured that I have caught the expression +of his face. The picture is, of course, an ideal one, for, as you know, +I never saw Fifty-Six." + +The bell on the door of the outer shop tinkled at the entrance of a +customer. Ah-Yen rose with that air of quiet resignation that habitually +marked his demeanour, and remained for some time in the shop. When he +returned he seemed in no mood to continue speaking of his lost friend. I +left him soon after and walked sorrowfully home to my lodgings. On my +way I mused much upon my little Eastern friend and the sympathetic grasp +of his imagination. But a burden lay heavy on my heart--something I +would fain have told him but which I could not bear to mention. I could +not find it in my heart to shatter the airy castle of his fancy. For my +life has been secluded and lonely and I have known no love like that of +my ideal friend. Yet I have a haunting recollection of a certain huge +bundle of washing that I sent to him about a year ago. I had been absent +from town for three weeks and my laundry was much larger than usual in +consequence. And if I mistake not there was in the bundle a tattered +shirt that had been grievously stained by the breaking of a bottle of +red ink in my portmanteau, and burnt in one place where an ash fell from +my cigar as I made up the bundle. Of all this I cannot feel absolutely +certain, yet I know at least that until a year ago, when I transferred +my custom to a more modern establishment, my laundry number with Ah-Yen +was Fifty-Six. + + + + +_Aristocratic Education_ + + +House of Lords, Jan. 25, 1920.--The House of Lords commenced to-day in +Committee the consideration of Clause No. 52,000 of the Education Bill, +dealing with the teaching of Geometry in the schools. + +The Leader of the Government in presenting the clause urged upon their +Lordships the need of conciliation. The Bill, he said, had now been +before their Lordships for sixteen years. The Government had made every +concession. They had accepted all the amendments of their Lordships on +the opposite side in regard to the original provisions of the Bill. They +had consented also to insert in the Bill a detailed programme of studies +of which the present clause, enunciating the fifth proposition of +Euclid, was a part. He would therefore ask their Lordships to accept the +clause drafted as follows: + +"The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal, and if the +equal sides of the triangle are produced, the exterior angles will also +be equal." + +He would hasten to add that the Government had no intention of producing +the sides. Contingencies might arise to render such a course necessary, +but in that case their Lordships would receive an early intimation of +the fact. + +The Archbishop of Canterbury spoke against the clause. He considered it, +in its present form, too secular. He should wish to amend the clause so +as to make it read: + +"The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are, in every Christian +community, equal, and if the sides be produced by a member of a +Christian congregation, the exterior angles will be equal." + +He was aware, he continued, that the angles at the base of an isosceles +triangle are extremely equal, but he must remind the Government that the +Church had been aware of this for several years past. He was willing +also to admit that the opposite sides and ends of a parallelogram are +equal, but he thought that such admission should be coupled with a +distinct recognition of the existence of a Supreme Being. + +The Leader of the Government accepted His Grace's amendment with +pleasure. He considered it the brightest amendment His Grace had made +that week. The Government, he said, was aware of the intimate relation +in which His Grace stood to the bottom end of a parallelogram and was +prepared to respect it. + +Lord Halifax rose to offer a further amendment. He thought the present +case was one in which the "four-fifths" clause ought to apply: he should +wish it stated that the angles are equal for two days every week, except +in the case of schools where four-fifths of the parents are +conscientiously opposed to the use of the isosceles triangle. + +The Leader of the Government thought the amendment a singularly pleasing +one. He accepted it and would like it understood that the words +isosceles triangle were not meant in any offensive sense. + +Lord Rosebery spoke at some length. He considered the clause unfair to +Scotland, where the high state of morality rendered education +unnecessary. Unless an amendment in this sense was accepted, it might be +necessary to reconsider the Act of Union of 1707. + +The Leader of the Government said that Lord Rosebery's amendment was the +best he had heard yet. The Government accepted it at once. They were +willing to make every concession. They would, if need be, reconsider the +Norman Conquest. + +The Duke of Devonshire took exception to the part of the clause relating +to the production of the sides. He did not think the country was +prepared for it. It was unfair to the producer. He would like the clause +altered to read, "if the sides be produced in the home market." + +The Leader of the Government accepted with pleasure His Grace's +amendment. He considered it quite sensible. He would now, as it was near +the hour of rising, present the clause in its revised form. He hoped, +however, that their Lordships would find time to think out some further +amendments for the evening sitting. + +The clause was then read. + +His Grace of Canterbury then moved that the House, in all humility, +adjourn for dinner. + + + + +_The Conjurer's Revenge_ + + +"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said the conjurer, "having shown you that +the cloth is absolutely empty, I will proceed to take from it a bowl of +goldfish. Presto!" + +All around the hall people were saying, "Oh, how wonderful! How does he +do it?" + +But the Quick Man on the front seat said in a big whisper to the people +near him, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve." + +Then the people nodded brightly at the Quick Man and said, "Oh, of +course"; and everybody whispered round the hall, +"He-had-it-up-his-sleeve." + +"My next trick," said the conjurer, "is the famous Hindostanee rings. +You will notice that the rings are apparently separate; at a blow they +all join (clang, clang, clang)--Presto!" + +There was a general buzz of stupefaction till the Quick Man was heard to +whisper, "He-must-have-had-another-lot-up-his-sleeve." + +Again everybody nodded and whispered, "The-rings-were-up-his-sleeve." + +The brow of the conjurer was clouded with a gathering frown. + +"I will now," he continued, "show you a most amusing trick by which I am +enabled to take any number of eggs from a hat. Will some gentleman +kindly lend me his hat? Ah, thank you--Presto!" + +He extracted seventeen eggs, and for thirty-five seconds the audience +began to think that he was wonderful. Then the Quick Man whispered along +the front bench, "He-has-a-hen-up-his-sleeve," and all the people +whispered it on. "He-has-a-lot-of-hens-up-his-sleeve." + +The egg trick was ruined. + +It went on like that all through. It transpired from the whispers of the +Quick Man that the conjurer must have concealed up his sleeve, in +addition to the rings, hens, and fish, several packs of cards, a loaf of +bread, a doll's cradle, a live guinea-pig, a fifty-cent piece, and a +rocking-chair. + +The reputation of the conjurer was rapidly sinking below zero. At the +close of the evening he rallied for a final effort. + +"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I will present to you, in conclusion, +the famous Japanese trick recently invented by the natives of Tipperary. +Will you, sir," he continued turning toward the Quick Man, "will you +kindly hand me your gold watch?" + +It was passed to him. + +"Have I your permission to put it into this mortar and pound it to +pieces?" he asked savagely. + +The Quick Man nodded and smiled. + +The conjurer threw the watch into the mortar and grasped a sledge hammer +from the table. There was a sound of violent smashing, +"He's-slipped-it-up-his-sleeve," whispered the Quick Man. + +"Now, sir," continued the conjurer, "will you allow me to take your +handkerchief and punch holes in it? Thank you. You see, ladies and +gentlemen, there is no deception; the holes are visible to the eye." + +The face of the Quick Man beamed. This time the real mystery of the +thing fascinated him. + +"And now, sir, will you kindly pass me your silk hat and allow me to +dance on it? Thank you." + +The conjurer made a few rapid passes with his feet and exhibited the hat +crushed beyond recognition. + +"And will you now, sir, take off your celluloid collar and permit me to +burn it in the candle? Thank you, sir. And will you allow me to smash +your spectacles for you with my hammer? Thank you." + +By this time the features of the Quick Man were assuming a puzzled +expression. "This thing beats me," he whispered, "I don't see through it +a bit." + +There was a great hush upon the audience. Then the conjurer drew himself +up to his full height and, with a withering look at the Quick Man, he +concluded: + +"Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe that I have, with this +gentleman's permission, broken his watch, burnt his collar, smashed his +spectacles, and danced on his hat. If he will give me the further +permission to paint green stripes on his overcoat, or to tie his +suspenders in a knot, I shall be delighted to entertain you. If not, the +performance is at an end." + +And amid a glorious burst of music from the orchestra the curtain fell, +and the audience dispersed, convinced that there are some tricks, at any +rate, that are not done up the conjurer's sleeve. + + + + +_Hints to Travellers_ + + +The following hints and observations have occurred to me during a recent +trip across the continent: they are written in no spirit of complaint +against existing railroad methods, but merely in the hope that they may +prove useful to those who travel, like myself, in a spirit of meek, +observant ignorance. + +1. Sleeping in a Pullman car presents some difficulties to the novice. +Care should be taken to allay all sense of danger. The frequent +whistling of the engine during the night is apt to be a source of alarm. +Find out, therefore, before travelling, the meaning of the various +whistles. One means "station," two, "railroad crossing," and so on. Five +whistles, short and rapid, mean sudden danger. When you hear whistles in +the night, sit up smartly in your bunk and count them. Should they reach +five, draw on your trousers over your pyjamas and leave the train +instantly. As a further precaution against accident, sleep with the feet +towards the engine if you prefer to have the feet crushed, or with the +head towards the engine, if you think it best to have the head crushed. +In making this decision try to be as unselfish as possible. If +indifferent, sleep crosswise with the head hanging over into the aisle. + +2. I have devoted some thought to the proper method of changing trains. +The system which I have observed to be the most popular with travellers +of my own class, is something as follows: Suppose that you have been +told on leaving New York that you are to change at Kansas City. The +evening before approaching Kansas City, stop the conductor in the aisle +of the car (you can do this best by putting out your foot and tripping +him), and say politely, "Do I change at Kansas City?" He says "Yes." +Very good. Don't believe him. On going into the dining-car for supper, +take a negro aside and put it to him as a personal matter between a +white man and a black, whether he thinks you ought to change at Kansas +City. Don't be satisfied with this. In the course of the evening pass +through the entire train from time to time, and say to people casually, +"Oh, can you tell me if I change at Kansas City?" Ask the conductor +about it a few more times in the evening: a repetition of the question +will ensure pleasant relations with him. Before falling asleep watch for +his passage and ask him through the curtains of your berth, "Oh, by the +way, did you say I changed at Kansas City?" If he refuses to stop, hook +him by the neck with your walking-stick, and draw him gently to your +bedside. In the morning when the train stops and a man calls, "Kansas +City! All change!" approach the conductor again and say, "Is this Kansas +City?" Don't be discouraged at his answer. Pick yourself up and go to +the other end of the car and say to the brakesman, "Do you know, sir, if +this is Kansas City?" Don't be too easily convinced. Remember that both +brakesman and conductor may be in collusion to deceive you. Look around, +therefore, for the name of the station on the signboard. Having found +it, alight and ask the first man you see if this is Kansas City. He will +answer, "Why, where in blank are your blank eyes? Can't you see it +there, plain as blank?" When you hear language of this sort, ask no +more. You are now in Kansas and this is Kansas City. + +3. I have observed that it is now the practice of the conductors to +stick bits of paper in the hats of the passengers. They do this, I +believe, to mark which ones they like best. The device is pretty, and +adds much to the scenic appearance of the car. But I notice with pain +that the system is fraught with much trouble for the conductors. The +task of crushing two or three passengers together, in order to reach +over them and stick a ticket into the chinks of a silk skull cap is +embarrassing for a conductor of refined feelings. It would be simpler if +the conductor should carry a small hammer and a packet of shingle nails +and nail the paid-up passenger to the back of the seat. Or better still, +let the conductor carry a small pot of paint and a brush, and mark the +passengers in such a way that he cannot easily mistake them. In the case +of bald-headed passengers, the hats might be politely removed and red +crosses painted on the craniums. This will indicate that they are bald. +Through passengers might be distinguished by a complete coat of paint. +In the hands of a man of taste, much might be effected by a little +grouping of painted passengers and the leisure time of the conductor +agreeably occupied. + +4. I have observed in travelling in the West that the irregularity of +railroad accidents is a fruitful cause of complaint. The frequent +disappointment of the holders of accident policy tickets on western +roads is leading to widespread protest. Certainly the conditions of +travel in the West are altering rapidly and accidents can no longer be +relied upon. This is deeply to be regretted, in so much as, apart from +accidents, the tickets may be said to be practically valueless. + + + + +_A Manual of Education_ + + +The few selections below are offered as a specimen page of a little book +which I have in course of preparation. + +Every man has somewhere in the back of his head the wreck of a thing +which he calls his education. My book is intended to embody in concise +form these remnants of early instruction. + +Educations are divided into splendid educations, thorough classical +educations, and average educations. All very old men have splendid +educations; all men who apparently know nothing else have thorough +classical educations; nobody has an average education. + +An education, when it is all written out on foolscap, covers nearly ten +sheets. It takes about six years of severe college training to acquire +it. Even then a man often finds that he somehow hasn't got his education +just where he can put his thumb on it. When my little book of eight or +ten pages has appeared, everybody may carry his education in his hip +pocket. + +Those who have not had the advantage of an early training will be +enabled, by a few hours of conscientious application, to put themselves +on an equal footing with the most scholarly. + +The selections are chosen entirely at random. + + +I.--REMAINS OF ASTRONOMY + +Astronomy teaches the correct use of the sun and the planets. These may +be put on a frame of little sticks and turned round. This causes the +tides. Those at the ends of the sticks are enormously far away. From +time to time a diligent searching of the sticks reveals new planets. The +orbit of a planet is the distance the stick goes round in going round. +Astronomy is intensely interesting; it should be done at night, in a +high tower in Spitzbergen. This is to avoid the astronomy being +interrupted. A really good astronomer can tell when a comet is coming +too near him by the warning buzz of the revolving sticks. + + +II.--REMAINS OF HISTORY + +Aztecs: A fabulous race, half man, half horse, half mound-builder. They +flourished at about the same time as the early Calithumpians. They have +left some awfully stupendous monuments of themselves somewhere. + +Life of Caesar: A famous Roman general, the last who ever landed in +Britain without being stopped at the custom house. On returning to his +Sabine farm (to fetch something), he was stabbed by Brutus, and died +with the words "Veni, vidi, tekel, upharsim" in his throat. The jury +returned a verdict of strangulation. + +Life of Voltaire: A Frenchman; very bitter. + +Life of Schopenhauer: A German; very deep; but it was not really +noticeable when he sat down. + +Life of Dante: An Italian; the first to introduce the banana and the +class of street organ known as "Dante's Inferno." + +Peter the Great, Alfred the Great, Frederick the Great, John the Great, +Tom the Great, Jim the Great, Jo the Great, etc., etc. + +It is impossible for a busy man to keep these apart. They sought a +living as kings and apostles and pugilists and so on. + + +III.--REMAINS OF BOTANY. + +Botany is the art of plants. Plants are divided into trees, flowers, and +vegetables. The true botanist knows a tree as soon as he sees it. He +learns to distinguish it from a vegetable by merely putting his ear to +it. + + +IV.--REMAINS OF NATURAL SCIENCE. + +Natural Science treats of motion and force. Many of its teachings remain +as part of an educated man's permanent equipment in life. Such are: + +(a) The harder you shove a bicycle the faster it will go. This is +because of natural science. + +(b) If you fall from a high tower, you fall quicker and quicker and +quicker; a judicious selection of a tower will ensure any rate of speed. + +(c) If you put your thumb in between two cogs it will go on and on, +until the wheels are arrested, by your suspenders. This is machinery. + +(d) Electricity is of two kinds, positive and negative. The difference +is, I presume, that one kind comes a little more expensive, but is more +durable; the other is a cheaper thing, but the moths get into it. + + + + +_Hoodoo McFiggin's Christmas_ + + +This Santa Claus business is played out. It's a sneaking, underhand +method, and the sooner it's exposed the better. + +For a parent to get up under cover of the darkness of night and palm off +a ten-cent necktie on a boy who had been expecting a ten-dollar watch, +and then say that an angel sent it to him, is low, undeniably low. + +I had a good opportunity of observing how the thing worked this +Christmas, in the case of young Hoodoo McFiggin, the son and heir of the +McFiggins, at whose house I board. + +Hoodoo McFiggin is a good boy--a religious boy. He had been given to +understand that Santa Claus would bring nothing to his father and mother +because grown-up people don't get presents from the angels. So he saved +up all his pocket-money and bought a box of cigars for his father and a +seventy-five-cent diamond brooch for his mother. His own fortunes he +left in the hands of the angels. But he prayed. He prayed every night +for weeks that Santa Claus would bring him a pair of skates and a +puppy-dog and an air-gun and a bicycle and a Noah's ark and a sleigh and +a drum--altogether about a hundred and fifty dollars' worth of stuff. + +I went into Hoodoo's room quite early Christmas morning. I had an idea +that the scene would be interesting. I woke him up and he sat up in bed, +his eyes glistening with radiant expectation, and began hauling things +out of his stocking. + +The first parcel was bulky; it was done up quite loosely and had an odd +look generally. + +"Ha! ha!" Hoodoo cried gleefully, as he began undoing it. "I'll bet it's +the puppy-dog, all wrapped up in paper!" + +And was it the puppy-dog? No, by no means. It was a pair of nice, +strong, number-four boots, laces and all, labelled, "Hoodoo, from Santa +Claus," and underneath Santa Claus had written, "95 net." + +The boy's jaw fell with delight. "It's boots," he said, and plunged in +his hand again. + +He began hauling away at another parcel with renewed hope on his face. + +This time the thing seemed like a little round box. Hoodoo tore the +paper off it with a feverish hand. He shook it; something rattled +inside. + +"It's a watch and chain! It's a watch and chain!" he shouted. Then he +pulled the lid off. + +And was it a watch and chain? No. It was a box of nice, brand-new +celluloid collars, a dozen of them all alike and all his own size. + +The boy was so pleased that you could see his face crack up with +pleasure. + +He waited a few minutes until his intense joy subsided. Then he tried +again. + +This time the packet was long and hard. It resisted the touch and had a +sort of funnel shape. + +"It's a toy pistol!" said the boy, trembling with excitement. "Gee! I +hope there are lots of caps with it! I'll fire some off now and wake up +father." + +No, my poor child, you will not wake your father with that. It is a +useful thing, but it needs not caps and it fires no bullets, and you +cannot wake a sleeping man with a tooth-brush. Yes, it was a +tooth-brush--a regular beauty, pure bone all through, and ticketed with +a little paper, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus." + +Again the expression of intense joy passed over the boy's face, and the +tears of gratitude started from his eyes. He wiped them away with his +tooth-brush and passed on. + +The next packet was much larger and evidently contained something soft +and bulky. It had been too long to go into the stocking and was tied +outside. + +"I wonder what this is," Hoodoo mused, half afraid to open it. Then his +heart gave a great leap, and he forgot all his other presents in the +anticipation of this one. "It's the drum!" he gasped. "It's the drum, +all wrapped up!" + +Drum nothing! It was pants--a pair of the nicest little short +pants--yellowish-brown short pants--with dear little stripes of colour +running across both ways, and here again Santa Claus had written, +"Hoodoo, from Santa Claus, one fort net." + +But there was something wrapped up in it. Oh, yes! There was a pair of +braces wrapped up in it, braces with a little steel sliding thing so +that you could slide your pants up to your neck, if you wanted to. + +The boy gave a dry sob of satisfaction. Then he took out his last +present. "It's a book," he said, as he unwrapped it. "I wonder if it is +fairy stories or adventures. Oh, I hope it's adventures! I'll read it +all morning." + +No, Hoodoo, it was not precisely adventures. It was a small family +Bible. Hoodoo had now seen all his presents, and he arose and dressed. +But he still had the fun of playing with his toys. That is always the +chief delight of Christmas morning. + +First he played with his tooth-brush. He got a whole lot of water and +brushed all his teeth with it. This was huge. + +Then he played with his collars. He had no end of fun with them, taking +them all out one by one and swearing at them, and then putting them back +and swearing at the whole lot together. + +The next toy was his pants. He had immense fun there, putting them on +and taking them off again, and then trying to guess which side was which +by merely looking at them. + +After that he took his book and read some adventures called "Genesis" +till breakfast-time. + +Then he went downstairs and kissed his father and mother. His father was +smoking a cigar, and his mother had her new brooch on. Hoodoo's face was +thoughtful, and a light seemed to have broken in upon his mind. Indeed, +I think it altogether likely that next Christmas he will hang on to his +own money and take chances on what the angels bring. + + + + +_The Life of John Smith_ + + +The lives of great men occupy a large section of our literature. The +great man is certainly a wonderful thing. He walks across his century +and leaves the marks of his feet all over it, ripping out the dates on +his goloshes as he passes. It is impossible to get up a revolution or a +new religion, or a national awakening of any sort, without his turning +up, putting himself at the head of it and collaring all the +gate-receipts for himself. Even after his death he leaves a long trail +of second-rate relations spattered over the front seats of fifty years +of history. + +Now the lives of great men are doubtless infinitely interesting. But at +times I must confess to a sense of reaction and an idea that the +ordinary common man is entitled to have his biography written too. It is +to illustrate this view that I write the life of John Smith, a man +neither good nor great, but just the usual, everyday homo like you and +me and the rest of us. + +From his earliest childhood John Smith was marked out from his comrades +by nothing. The marvellous precocity of the boy did not astonish his +preceptors. Books were not a passion for him from his youth, neither did +any old man put his hand on Smith's head and say, mark his words, this +boy would some day become a man. Nor yet was it his father's wont to +gaze on him with a feeling amounting almost to awe. By no means! All his +father did was to wonder whether Smith was a darn fool because he +couldn't help it, or because he thought it smart. In other words, he was +just like you and me and the rest of us. + +In those athletic sports which were the ornament of the youth of his +day, Smith did not, as great men do, excel his fellows. He couldn't ride +worth a darn. He couldn't skate worth a darn. He couldn't swim worth a +darn. He couldn't shoot worth a darn. He couldn't do anything worth a +darn. He was just like us. + +Nor did the bold cast of the boy's mind offset his physical defects, as +it invariably does in the biographies. On the contrary. He was afraid of +his father. He was afraid of his school-teacher. He was afraid of dogs. +He was afraid of guns. He was afraid of lightning. He was afraid of +hell. He was afraid of girls. + +In the boy's choice of a profession there was not seen that keen longing +for a life-work that we find in the celebrities. He didn't want to be a +lawyer, because you have to know law. He didn't want to be a doctor, +because you have to know medicine. He didn't want to be a business-man, +because you have to know business; and he didn't want to be a +school-teacher, because he had seen too many of them. As far as he had +any choice, it lay between being Robinson Crusoe and being the Prince of +Wales. His father refused him both and put him into a dry goods +establishment. + +Such was the childhood of Smith. At its close there was nothing in his +outward appearance to mark the man of genius. The casual observer could +have seen no genius concealed behind the wide face, the massive mouth, +the long slanting forehead, and the tall ear that swept up to the +close-cropped head. Certainly he couldn't. There wasn't any concealed +there. + +It was shortly after his start in business life that Smith was stricken +with the first of those distressing attacks, to which he afterwards +became subject. It seized him late one night as he was returning home +from a delightful evening of song and praise with a few old school +chums. Its symptoms were a peculiar heaving of the sidewalk, a dancing +of the street lights, and a crafty shifting to and fro of the houses, +requiring a very nice discrimination in selecting his own. There was a +strong desire not to drink water throughout the entire attack, which +showed that the thing was evidently a form of hydrophobia. From this +time on, these painful attacks became chronic with Smith. They were +liable to come on at any time, but especially on Saturday nights, on the +first of the month, and on Thanksgiving Day. He always had a very severe +attack of hydrophobia on Christmas Eve, and after elections it was +fearful. + +There was one incident in Smith's career which he did, perhaps, share +with regret. He had scarcely reached manhood when he met the most +beautiful girl in the world. She was different from all other women. She +had a deeper nature than other people. Smith realized it at once. She +could feel and understand things that ordinary people couldn't. She +could understand him. She had a great sense of humour and an exquisite +appreciation of a joke. He told her the six that he knew one night and +she thought them great. Her mere presence made Smith feel as if he had +swallowed a sunset: the first time that his finger brushed against hers, +he felt a thrill all through him. He presently found that if he took a +firm hold of her hand with his, he could get a fine thrill, and if he +sat beside her on a sofa, with his head against her ear and his arm +about once and a half round her, he could get what you might call a +first-class, A-1 thrill. Smith became filled with the idea that he would +like to have her always near him. He suggested an arrangement to her, by +which she should come and live in the same house with him and take +personal charge of his clothes and his meals. She was to receive in +return her board and washing, about seventy-five cents a week in ready +money, and Smith was to be her slave. + +After Smith had been this woman's slave for some time, baby fingers +stole across his life, then another set of them, and then more and more +till the house was full of them. The woman's mother began to steal +across his life too, and every time she came Smith had hydrophobia +frightfully. Strangely enough there was no little prattler that was +taken from his life and became a saddened, hallowed memory to him. Oh, +no! The little Smiths were not that kind of prattler. The whole nine +grew up into tall, lank boys with massive mouths and great sweeping ears +like their father's, and no talent for anything. + +The life of Smith never seemed to bring him to any of those great +turning-points that occurred in the lives of the great. True, the +passing years brought some change of fortune. He was moved up in his +dry-goods establishment from the ribbon counter to the collar counter, +from the collar counter to the gents' panting counter, and from the +gents' panting to the gents' fancy shirting. Then, as he grew aged and +inefficient, they moved him down again from the gents' fancy shirting to +the gents' panting, and so on to the ribbon counter. And when he grew +quite old they dismissed him and got a boy with a four-inch mouth and +sandy-coloured hair, who did all Smith could do for half the money. That +was John Smith's mercantile career: it won't stand comparison with Mr. +Gladstone's, but it's not unlike your own. + +Smith lived for five years after this. His sons kept him. They didn't +want to, but they had to. In his old age the brightness of his mind and +his fund of anecdote were not the delight of all who dropped in to see +him. He told seven stories and he knew six jokes. The stories were long +things all about himself, and the jokes were about a commercial +traveller and a Methodist minister. But nobody dropped in to see him, +anyway, so it didn't matter. + +At sixty-five Smith was taken ill, and, receiving proper treatment, he +died. There was a tombstone put up over him, with a hand pointing +north-north-east. + +But I doubt if he ever got there. He was too like us. + + + + +_On Collecting Things_ + + +Like most other men I have from time to time been stricken with a desire +to make collections of things. + +It began with postage stamps. I had a letter from a friend of mine who +had gone out to South Africa. The letter had a three-cornered stamp on +it, and I thought as soon as I looked at it, "That's the thing! Stamp +collecting! I'll devote my life to it." + +I bought an album with accommodation for the stamps of all nations, and +began collecting right off. For three days the collection made wonderful +progress. It contained: + + One Cape of Good Hope stamp. + + One one-cent stamp, United States of America. + + One two-cent stamp, United States of America. + + One five-cent stamp, United States of America. + + One ten-cent stamp, United States of America. + +After that the collection came to a dead stop. For a while I used to +talk about it rather airily and say I had one or two rather valuable +South African stamps. But I presently grew tired even of lying about it. + +Collecting coins is a thing that I attempt at intervals. Every time I am +given an old half-penny or a Mexican quarter, I get an idea that if a +fellow made a point of holding on to rarities of that sort, he'd soon +have quite a valuable collection. The first time that I tried it I was +full of enthusiasm, and before long my collection numbered quite a few +articles of vertu. The items were as follows: + +No. 1. Ancient Roman coin. Time of Caligula. This one of course was the +gem of the whole lot; it was given me by a friend, and that was what +started me collecting. + +No. 2. Small copper coin. Value one cent. United States of America. +Apparently modern. + +No. 3. Small nickel coin. Circular. United States of America. Value five +cents. + +No. 4. Small silver coin. Value ten cents. United States of America. + +No. 5. Silver coin. Circular. Value twenty-five cents. United States of +America. Very beautiful. + +No. 6. Large silver coin. Circular. Inscription, "One Dollar." United +States of America. Very valuable. + +No. 7. Ancient British copper coin. Probably time of Caractacus. Very +dim. Inscription, "Victoria Dei gratia regina." Very valuable. + +No. 8. Silver coin. Evidently French. Inscription, "Funf Mark. Kaiser +Wilhelm." + +No. 9. Circular silver coin. Very much defaced. Part of inscription, "E +Pluribus Unum." Probably a Russian rouble, but quite as likely to be a +Japanese yen or a Shanghai rooster. + +That's as far as that collection got. It lasted through most of the +winter and I was getting quite proud of it, but I took the coins down +town one evening to show to a friend and we spent No. 3, No. 4, No. 5, +No. 6, and No. 7 in buying a little dinner for two. After dinner I +bought a yen's worth of cigars and traded the relic of Caligula for as +many hot Scotches as they cared to advance on it. After that I felt +reckless and put No. 2 and No. 8 into a Children's Hospital poor box. + +I tried fossils next. I got two in ten years. Then I quit. + +A friend of mine once showed me a very fine collection of ancient and +curious weapons, and for a time I was full of that idea. I gathered +several interesting specimens, such as: + +No. 1. Old flint-lock musket, used by my grandfather. (He used it on the +farm for years as a crowbar.) + +No. 2. Old raw-hide strap, used by my father. + +No. 3. Ancient Indian arrowhead, found by myself the very day after I +began collecting. It resembles a three-cornered stone. + +No. 4. Ancient Indian bow, found by myself behind a sawmill on the +second day of collecting. It resembles a straight stick of elm or oak. +It is interesting to think that this very weapon may have figured in +some fierce scene of savage warfare. + +No. 5. Cannibal poniard or straight-handled dagger of the South Sea +Islands. It will give the reader almost a thrill of horror to learn that +this atrocious weapon, which I bought myself on the third day of +collecting, was actually exposed in a second-hand store as a family +carving-knife. In gazing at it one cannot refrain from conjuring up the +awful scenes it must have witnessed. + +I kept this collection for quite a long while until, in a moment of +infatuation, I presented it to a young lady as a betrothal present. The +gift proved too ostentatious and our relations subsequently ceased to be +cordial. + +On the whole I am inclined to recommend the beginner to confine himself +to collecting coins. At present I am myself making a collection of +American bills (time of Taft preferred), a pursuit I find most +absorbing. + + + + +_Society Chit-Chat_ + + +AS IT SHOULD BE WRITTEN + +I notice that it is customary for the daily papers to publish a column +or so of society gossip. They generally head it "Chit-Chat," or "On +Dit," or "Le Boudoir," or something of the sort, and they keep it pretty +full of French terms to give it the proper sort of swing. These columns +may be very interesting in their way, but it always seems to me that +they don't get hold of quite the right things to tell us about. They are +very fond, for instance, of giving an account of the delightful dance at +Mrs. De Smythe's--at which Mrs. De Smythe looked charming in a gown of +old tulle with a stomacher of passementerie--or of the dinner-party at +Mr. Alonzo Robinson's residence, or the smart pink tea given by Miss +Carlotta Jones. No, that's all right, but it's not the kind of thing we +want to get at; those are not the events which happen in our neighbours' +houses that we really want to hear about. It is the quiet little family +scenes, the little traits of home-life that--well, for example, take the +case of that delightful party at the De Smythes. I am certain that all +those who were present would much prefer a little paragraph like the +following, which would give them some idea of the home-life of the De +Smythes on the morning after the party. + + +DÉJEUNER DE LUXE AT THE DE SMYTHE RESIDENCE + +On Wednesday morning last at 7.15 a.m. a charming little breakfast was +served at the home of Mr. De Smythe. The _déjeuner_ was given in honour +of Mr. De Smythe and his two sons, Master Adolphus and Master Blinks De +Smythe, who were about to leave for their daily _travail_ at their +wholesale _Bureau de Flour et de Feed_. All the gentlemen were very +quietly dressed in their _habits de work_. Miss Melinda De Smythe poured +out tea, the _domestique_ having _refusé_ to get up so early after the +_partie_ of the night before. The menu was very handsome, consisting of +eggs and bacon, _demi-froid_, and ice-cream. The conversation was +sustained and lively. Mr. De Smythe sustained it and made it lively for +his daughter and his _garçons_. In the course of the talk Mr. De Smythe +stated that the next time he allowed the young people to turn his +_maison_ topsy-turvy he would see them in _enfer_. He wished to know if +they were aware that some ass of the evening before had broken a pane of +coloured glass in the hall that would cost him four dollars. Did they +think he was made of _argent_. If so, they never made a bigger mistake +in their _vie_. The meal closed with general expressions of +good-feeling. A little bird has whispered to us that there will be no +more parties at the De Smythes' _pour long-temps_. + +Here is another little paragraph that would be of general interest in +society. + + +DINER DE FAMEEL AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE DE MCFIGGIN + +Yesterday evening at half after six a pleasant little _diner_ was given +by Madame McFiggin of Rock Street, to her boarders. The _salle à manger_ +was very prettily decorated with texts, and the furniture upholstered +with _cheveux de horse_, _Louis Quinze_. The boarders were all very +quietly dressed: Mrs. McFiggin was daintily attired in some old clinging +stuff with a _corsage de Whalebone_ underneath. The ample board groaned +under the bill of fare. The boarders groaned also. Their groaning was +very noticeable. The _pièce de resistance_ was a _hunko de bœuf boilé_, +flanked with some old clinging stuff. The _entrées_ were _pâté de +pumpkin_, followed by _fromage McFiggin_, served under glass. Towards +the end of the first course, speeches became the order of the day. Mrs. +McFiggin was the first speaker. In commencing, she expressed her +surprise that so few of the gentlemen seemed to care for the _hunko de +bœuf_; her own mind, she said, had hesitated between _hunko de bœuf +boilé_ and a pair of roast chickens (sensation). She had finally decided +in favour of the _hunko de bœuf_ (no sensation). She referred at some +length to the late Mr. McFiggin, who had always shown a marked +preference for _hunko de bœuf_. Several other speakers followed. All +spoke forcibly and to the point. The last to speak was the Reverend Mr. +Whiner. The reverend gentleman, in rising, said that he confided himself +and his fellow-boarders to the special interference of providence. For +what they had eaten, he said, he hoped that Providence would make them +truly thankful. At the close of the _Repas_ several of the boarders +expressed their intention of going down the street to a _restourong_ to +get _quelque chose à manger_. + +Here is another example. How interesting it would be to get a detailed +account of that little affair at the Robinsons', of which the neighbours +only heard indirectly! Thus: + + +DELIGHTFUL EVENING AT THE RESIDENCE OF MR. ALONZO ROBINSON + +Yesterday the family of Mr. Alonzo Robinson spent a very lively evening +at their home on ----th Avenue. The occasion was the seventeenth +birthday of Master Alonzo Robinson, junior. It was the original +intention of Master Alonzo Robinson to celebrate the day at home and +invite a few of _les garçons_. Mr. Robinson, senior, however, having +declared that he would be _damné_ first, Master Alonzo spent the evening +in visiting the salons of the town, which he painted _rouge_. Mr. +Robinson, senior, spent the evening at home in quiet expectation of his +son's return. He was very becomingly dressed in a _pantalon quatre vingt +treize_, and had his _whippe de chien_ laid across his knee. Madame +Robinson and the Mademoiselles Robinson wore black. The guest of the +evening arrived at a late hour. He wore his _habits de spri_, and had +about six _pouces_ of _eau de vie_ in him. He was evidently full up to +his _cou_. For some time after his arrival a very lively time was spent. +Mr. Robinson having at length broken the _whippe de chien_, the family +parted for the night with expressions of cordial goodwill. + + + + +_Insurance up to Date_ + + +A man called on me the other day with the idea of insuring my life. Now, +I detest life-insurance agents; they always argue that I shall some day +die, which is not so. I have been insured a great many times, for about +a month at a time, but have had no luck with it at all. + +So I made up my mind that I would outwit this man at his own game. I let +him talk straight ahead and encouraged him all I could, until he finally +left me with a sheet of questions which I was to answer as an applicant. +Now this was what I was waiting for; I had decided that, if that company +wanted information about me, they should have it, and have the very best +quality I could supply. So I spread the sheet of questions before me, +and drew up a set of answers for them, which, I hoped, would settle for +ever all doubts as to my eligibility for insurance. + +Question.--What is your age? +Answer.--I can't think. + +Q.--What is your chest measurement? +A.--Nineteen inches. + +Q.--What is your chest expansion? +A.--Half an inch. + +Q.--What is your height? +A.--Six feet five, if erect, but less when I walk on all fours. + +Q.--Is your grandfather dead? +A.--Practically. + +Q.--Cause of death, if dead? +A.--Dipsomania, if dead. + +Q.--Is your father dead? +A.--To the world. + +Q.--Cause of death? +A.--Hydrophobia. + +Q.--Place of father's residence? +A.--Kentucky. + +Q.--What illness have you had? +A.--As a child, consumption, leprosy, and water on the knee. As a man, +whooping-cough, stomach-ache, and water on the brain. + +Q.--Have you any brothers? +A.--Thirteen; all nearly dead. + +Q.--Are you aware of any habits or tendencies which might be expected to +shorten your life? +A.--I am aware. I drink, I smoke, I take morphine and vaseline. I +swallow grape seeds and I hate exercise. + +I thought when I had come to the end of that list that I had made a dead +sure thing of it, and I posted the paper with a cheque for three months' +payment, feeling pretty confident of having the cheque sent back to me. +I was a good deal surprised a few days later to receive the following +letter from the company: + +"DEAR SIR,--We beg to acknowledge your letter of application and cheque +for fifteen dollars. After a careful comparison of your case with the +average modern standard, we are pleased to accept you as a first-class +risk." + + + + +_Borrowing a Match_ + + +You might think that borrowing a match upon the street is a simple +thing. But any man who has ever tried it will assure you that it is not, +and will be prepared to swear to the truth of my experience of the other +evening. + +I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigar that I wanted to +light. I had no match. I waited till a decent, ordinary-looking man came +along. Then I said: + +"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loan of a match?" + +"A match?" he said, "why certainly." Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and +put his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. "I know I have one," he +went on, "and I'd almost swear it's in the bottom pocket--or, hold on, +though, I guess it may be in the top--just wait till I put these parcels +down on the sidewalk." + +"Oh, don't trouble," I said, "it's really of no consequence." + +"Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I know there must be one +in here somewhere"--he was digging his fingers into his pockets as he +spoke--"but you see this isn't the waistcoat I generally...." + +I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well, never mind," I +protested; "if that isn't the waistcoat that you generally--why, it +doesn't matter." + +"Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said, "I've got one of the cursed +things in here somewhere. I guess it must be in with my watch. No, it's +not there either. Wait till I try my coat. If that confounded tailor +only knew enough to make a pocket so that a man could get at it!" + +He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had thrown down his +walking-stick and was plunging at his pockets with his teeth set. "It's +that cursed young boy of mine," he hissed; "this comes of his fooling in +my pockets. By Gad! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say, +I'll bet that it's in my hip-pocket. You just hold up the tail of my +overcoat a second till I...." + +"No, no," I protested again, "please don't take all this trouble, it +really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn't take off your overcoat, and +oh, pray don't throw away your letters and things in the snow like that, +and tear out your pockets by the roots! Please, please don't trample +over your overcoat and put your feet through the parcels. I do hate to +hear you swearing at your little boy, with that peculiar whine in your +voice. Don't--please don't tear your clothes so savagely." + +Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drew his hand up from +inside the lining of his coat. + +"I've got it," he cried. "Here you are!" Then he brought it out under +the light. + +It was a toothpick. + +Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him under the wheels of a +trolley-car, and ran. + + + + +_A Lesson in Fiction_ + + +Suppose that in the opening pages of the modern melodramatic novel you +find some such situation as the following, in which is depicted the +terrific combat between Gaspard de Vaux, the boy lieutenant, and Hairy +Hank, the chief of the Italian banditti: + +"The inequality of the contest was apparent. With a mingled yell of rage +and contempt, his sword brandished above his head and his dirk between +his teeth, the enormous bandit rushed upon his intrepid opponent. De +Vaux seemed scarce more than a stripling, but he stood his ground and +faced his hitherto invincible assailant. 'Mong Dieu,' cried De Smythe, +'he is lost!'" + +Question. On which of the parties to the above contest do you honestly +feel inclined to put your money? + +Answer. On De Vaux. He'll win. Hairy Hank will force him down to one +knee and with a brutal cry of "Har! har!" will be about to dirk him, +when De Vaux will make a sudden lunge (one he had learnt at home out of +a book of lunges) and-- + +Very good. You have answered correctly. Now, suppose you find, a little +later in the book, that the killing of Hairy Hank has compelled De Vaux +to flee from his native land to the East. Are you not fearful for his +safety in the desert? + +Answer. Frankly, I am not. De Vaux is all right. His name is on the +title page, and you can't kill him. + +Question. Listen to this, then: "The sun of Ethiopia beat fiercely upon +the desert as De Vaux, mounted upon his faithful elephant, pursued his +lonely way. Seated in his lofty hoo-doo, his eye scoured the waste. +Suddenly a solitary horseman appeared on the horizon, then another, and +another, and then six. In a few moments a whole crowd of solitary +horsemen swooped down upon him. There was a fierce shout of 'Allah!' a +rattle of firearms. De Vaux sank from his hoo-doo on to the sands, while +the affrighted elephant dashed off in all directions. The bullet had +struck him in the heart." + +There now, what do you think of that? Isn't De Vaux killed now? + +Answer. I am sorry. De Vaux is not dead. True, the ball had hit him, oh +yes, it had hit him, but it had glanced off against a family Bible, +which he carried in his waistcoat in case of illness, struck some hymns +that he had in his hip-pocket, and, glancing off again, had flattened +itself against De Vaux's diary of his life in the desert, which was in +his knapsack. + +Question. But even if this doesn't kill him, you must admit that he is +near death when he is bitten in the jungle by the deadly dongola? + +Answer. That's all right. A kindly Arab will take De Vaux to the Sheik's +tent. + +Question. What will De Vaux remind the Sheik of? + +Answer. Too easy. Of his long-lost son, who disappeared years ago. + +Question. Was this son Hairy Hank? + +Answer. Of course he was. Anyone could see that, but the Sheik never +suspects it, and heals De Vaux. He heals him with an herb, a thing +called a simple, an amazingly simple, known only to the Sheik. Since +using this herb, the Sheik has used no other. + +Question. The Sheik will recognize an overcoat that De Vaux is wearing, +and complications will arise in the matter of Hairy Hank deceased. Will +this result in the death of the boy lieutenant? + +Answer. No. By this time De Vaux has realized that the reader knows he +won't die and resolves to quit the desert. The thought of his mother +keeps recurring to him, and of his father, too, the grey, stooping old +man--does he stoop still or has he stopped stooping? At times, too, +there comes the thought of another, a fairer than his father; she +whose--but enough, De Vaux returns to the old homestead in Piccadilly. + +Question. When De Vaux returns to England, what will happen? + +Answer. This will happen: "He who left England ten years before a raw +boy, has returned a sunburnt soldierly man. But who is this that +advances smilingly to meet him? Can the mere girl, the bright child that +shared his hours of play, can she have grown into this peerless, +graceful girl, at whose feet half the noble suitors of England are +kneeling? 'Can this be her?' he asks himself in amazement." + +Question. Is it her? + +Answer. Oh, it's her all right. It is her, and it is him, and it is +them. That girl hasn't waited fifty pages for nothing. + +Question. You evidently guess that a love affair will ensue between the +boy lieutenant and the peerless girl with the broad feet. Do you +imagine, however, that its course will run smoothly and leave nothing to +record? + +Answer. Not at all. I feel certain that the scene of the novel having +edged itself around to London, the writer will not feel satisfied unless +he introduces the following famous scene: + +"Stunned by the cruel revelation which he had received, unconscious of +whither his steps were taking him, Gaspard de Vaux wandered on in the +darkness from street to street until he found himself upon London +Bridge. He leaned over the parapet and looked down upon the whirling +stream below. There was something in the still, swift rush of it that +seemed to beckon, to allure him. After all, why not? What was life now +that he should prize it? For a moment De Vaux paused irresolute." + +Question. Will he throw himself in? + +Answer. Well, say you don't know Gaspard. He will pause irresolute up to +the limit, then, with a fierce struggle, will recall his courage and +hasten from the Bridge. + +Question. This struggle not to throw oneself in must be dreadfully +difficult? + +Answer. Oh! dreadfully! Most of us are so frail we should jump in at +once. But Gaspard has the knack of it. Besides he still has some of the +Sheik's herb; he chews it. + +Question. What has happened to De Vaux anyway? Is it anything he has +eaten? + +Answer. No, it is nothing that he has eaten. It's about her. The blow +has come. She has no use for sunburn, doesn't care for tan; she is going +to marry a duke and the boy lieutenant is no longer in it. The real +trouble is that the modern novelist has got beyond the happy-marriage +mode of ending. He wants tragedy and a blighted life to wind up with. + +Question. How will the book conclude? + +Answer. Oh, De Vaux will go back to the desert, fall upon the Sheik's +neck, and swear to be a second Hairy Hank to him. There will be a final +panorama of the desert, the Sheik and his newly found son at the door of +the tent, the sun setting behind a pyramid, and De Vaux's faithful +elephant crouched at his feet and gazing up at him with dumb affection. + + + + +_Helping the Armenians_ + + +The financial affairs of the parish church up at Doogalville have been +getting rather into a tangle in the last six months. The people of the +church were specially anxious to do something toward the general public +subscription of the town on behalf of the unhappy Armenians, and to +that purpose they determined to devote the collections taken up at a +series of special evening services. To give the right sort of swing to +the services and to stimulate generous giving, they put a new pipe +organ into the church. In order to make a preliminary payment on the +organ, it was decided to raise a mortgage on the parsonage. + +To pay the interest on the mortgage, the choir of the church got up a +sacred concert in the town hall. + +To pay for the town hall, the Willing Workers' Guild held a social in +the Sunday school. To pay the expenses of the social, the rector +delivered a public lecture on "Italy and Her Past," illustrated by a +magic lantern. To pay for the magic lantern, the curate and the ladies +of the church got up some amateur theatricals. + +Finally, to pay for the costumes for the theatricals, the rector felt it +his duty to dispense with the curate. + +So that is where the church stands just at present. What they chiefly +want to do, is to raise enough money to buy a suitable gold watch as a +testimonial to the curate. After that they hope to be able to do +something for the Armenians. Meantime, of course, the Armenians, the +ones right there in the town, are getting very troublesome. To begin +with, there is the Armenian who rented the costumes for the theatricals: +he has to be squared. Then there is the Armenian organ dealer, and the +Armenian who owned the magic lantern. They want relief badly. + +The most urgent case is that of the Armenian who holds the mortgage on +the parsonage; indeed it is generally felt in the congregation, when the +rector makes his impassioned appeals at the special services on behalf +of the suffering cause, that it is to this man that he has special +reference. + +In the meanwhile the general public subscription is not getting along +very fast; but the proprietor of the big saloon further down the street +and the man with the short cigar that runs the Doogalville Midway +Plaisance have been most liberal in their contributions. + + + + +_A Study in Still Life.--The Country Hotel_ + + +The country hotel stands on the sunny side of Main Street. It has three +entrances. + +There is one in front which leads into the Bar. There is one at the side +called the Ladies' Entrance which leads into the Bar from the side. +There is also the Main Entrance which leads into the Bar through the +Rotunda. + +The Rotunda is the space between the door of the bar-room and the +cigar-case. + +In it is a desk and a book. In the book are written down the names of +the guests, together with marks indicating the direction of the wind and +the height of the barometer. It is here that the newly arrived guest +waits until he has time to open the door leading to the Bar. + +The bar-room forms the largest part of the hotel. It constitutes the +hotel proper. To it are attached a series of bedrooms on the floor +above, many of which contain beds. + +The walls of the bar-room are perforated in all directions with +trap-doors. Through one of these drinks are passed into the back +sitting-room. Through others drinks are passed into the passages. Drinks +are also passed through the floor and through the ceiling. Drinks once +passed never return. The Proprietor stands in the doorway of the bar. He +weighs two hundred pounds. His face is immovable as putty. He is drunk. +He has been drunk for twelve years. It makes no difference to him. +Behind the bar stands the Bar-tender. He wears wicker-sleeves, his hair +is curled in a hook, and his name is Charlie. + +Attached to the bar is a pneumatic beer-pump, by means of which the +bar-tender can flood the bar with beer. Afterwards he wipes up the beer +with a rag. By this means he polishes the bar. Some of the beer that is +pumped up spills into glasses and has to be sold. + +Behind the bar-tender is a mechanism called a cash-register, which, on +being struck a powerful blow, rings a bell, sticks up a card marked NO +SALE, and opens a till from which the bar-tender distributes money. + +There is printed a tariff of drinks and prices on the wall. + +It reads thus: + + Beer . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 cents. + Whisky. . . . . . . . . . 5 cents. + Whisky and Soda. . . . . . . 5 cents. + Beer and Soda . . . . . . 5 cents. + Whisky and Beer and Soda . . 5 cents. + Whisky and Eggs . . . . . 5 cents. + Beer and Eggs . . . . . . 5 cents. + Champagne. . . . . . . 5 cents. + Cigars . . . . . . . . 5 cents. + Cigars, extra fine . . . . . 5 cents. + +All calculations are made on this basis and are worked out to three +places of decimals. Every seventh drink is on the house and is not +followed by a distribution of money. + +The bar-room closes at midnight, provided there are enough people in it. +If there is not a quorum the proprietor waits for a better chance. A +careful closing of the bar will often catch as many as twenty-five +people. The bar is not opened again till seven o'clock in the morning; +after that the people may go home. There are also, nowadays, Local +Option Hotels. These contain only one entrance, leading directly into +the bar. + + + + +_An Experiment With Policeman Hogan_ + + +Mr. Scalper sits writing in the reporters' room of The Daily Eclipse. +The paper has gone to press and he is alone; a wayward talented +gentleman, this Mr. Scalper, and employed by The Eclipse as a delineator +of character from handwriting. Any subscriber who forwards a specimen of +his handwriting is treated to a prompt analysis of his character from +Mr. Scalper's facile pen. The literary genius has a little pile of +correspondence beside him, and is engaged in the practice of his art. +Outside the night is dark and rainy. The clock on the City Hall marks +the hour of two. In front of the newspaper office Policeman Hogan walks +drearily up and down his beat. The damp misery of Hogan is intense. A +belated gentleman in clerical attire, returning home from a bed of +sickness, gives him a side-look of timid pity and shivers past. Hogan +follows the retreating figure with his eye; then draws forth a notebook +and sits down on the steps of The Eclipse building to write in the light +of the gas lamp. Gentlemen of nocturnal habits have often wondered what +it is that Policeman Hogan and his brethren write in their little books. +Here are the words that are fashioned by the big fist of the policeman: + +"Two o'clock. All is well. There is a light in Mr. Scalper's room above. +The night is very wet and I am unhappy and cannot sleep--my fourth night +of insomnia. Suspicious-looking individual just passed. Alas, how +melancholy is my life! Will the dawn never break! Oh, moist, moist +stone." + +Mr. Scalper up above is writing too, writing with the careless fluency +of a man who draws his pay by the column. He is delineating with skill +and rapidity. The reporters' room is gloomy and desolate. Mr. Scalper is +a man of sensitive temperament and the dreariness of his surroundings +depresses him. He opens the letter of a correspondent, examines the +handwriting narrowly, casts his eye around the room for inspiration, and +proceeds to delineate: + +"G.H. You have an unhappy, despondent nature; your circumstances oppress +you, and your life is filled with an infinite sadness. You feel that you +are without hope--" + +Mr. Scalper pauses, takes another look around the room, and finally lets +his eye rest for some time upon a tall black bottle that stands on the +shelf of an open cupboard. Then he goes on: + +"--and you have lost all belief in Christianity and a future world and +human virtue. You are very weak against temptation, but there is an ugly +vein of determination in your character, when you make up your mind that +you are going to have a thing--" + +Here Mr. Scalper stops abruptly, pushes back his chair, and dashes +across the room to the cupboard. He takes the black bottle from the +shelf, applies it to his lips, and remains for some time motionless. He +then returns to finish the delineation of G.H. with the hurried words: + +"On the whole I recommend you to persevere; you are doing very well." +Mr. Scalper's next proceeding is peculiar. He takes from the cupboard a +roll of twine, about fifty feet in length, and attaches one end of it to +the neck of the bottle. Going then to one of the windows, he opens it, +leans out, and whistles softly. The alert ear of Policeman Hogan on the +pavement below catches the sound, and he returns it. The bottle is +lowered to the end of the string, the guardian of the peace applies it +to his gullet, and for some time the policeman and the man of letters +remain attached by a cord of sympathy. Gentlemen who lead the variegated +life of Mr. Scalper find it well to propitiate the arm of the law, and +attachments of this sort are not uncommon. Mr. Scalper hauls up the +bottle, closes the window, and returns to his task; the policeman +resumes his walk with a glow of internal satisfaction. A glance at the +City Hall clock causes him to enter another note in his book. + +"Half-past two. All is better. The weather is milder with a feeling of +young summer in the air. Two lights in Mr. Scalper's room. Nothing has +occurred which need be brought to the notice of the roundsman." + +Things are going better upstairs too. The delineator opens a second +envelope, surveys the writing of the correspondent with a critical yet +charitable eye, and writes with more complacency. + +"William H. Your writing shows a disposition which, though naturally +melancholy, is capable of a temporary cheerfulness. You have known +misfortune but have made up your mind to look on the bright side of +things. If you will allow me to say so, you indulge in liquor but are +quite moderate in your use of it. Be assured that no harm ever comes of +this moderate use. It enlivens the intellect, brightens the faculties, +and stimulates the dormant fancy into a pleasurable activity. It is only +when carried to excess--" + +At this point the feelings of Mr. Scalper, who had been writing very +rapidly, evidently become too much for him. He starts up from his chair, +rushes two or three times around the room, and finally returns to finish +the delineation thus: "it is only when carried to excess that this +moderation becomes pernicious." + +Mr. Scalper succumbs to the train of thought suggested and gives an +illustration of how moderation to excess may be avoided, after which he +lowers the bottle to Policeman Hogan with a cheery exchange of +greetings. + +The half-hours pass on. The delineator is writing busily and feels that +he is writing well. The characters of his correspondents lie bare to his +keen eye and flow from his facile pen. From time to time he pauses and +appeals to the source of his inspiration; his humanity prompts him to +extend the inspiration to Policeman Hogan. The minion of the law walks +his beat with a feeling of more than tranquillity. A solitary Chinaman, +returning home late from his midnight laundry, scuttles past. The +literary instinct has risen strong in Hogan from his connection with the +man of genius above him, and the passage of the lone Chinee gives him +occasion to write in his book: + +"Four-thirty. Everything is simply great. There are four lights in Mr. +Scalper's room. Mild, balmy weather with prospects of an earthquake, +which may be held in check by walking with extreme caution. Two Chinamen +have just passed--mandarins, I presume. Their walk was unsteady, but +their faces so benign as to disarm suspicion." + +Up in the office Mr. Scalper has reached the letter of a correspondent +which appears to give him particular pleasure, for he delineates the +character with a beaming smile of satisfaction. To the unpractised eye +the writing resembles the prim, angular hand of an elderly spinster. Mr. +Scalper, however, seems to think otherwise, for he writes: + +"Aunt Dorothea. You have a merry, rollicking nature. At times you are +seized with a wild, tumultuous hilarity to which you give ample vent in +shouting and song. You are much addicted to profanity, and you rightly +feel that this is part of your nature and you must not check it. The +world is a very bright place to you, Aunt Dorothea. Write to me again +soon. Our minds seem cast in the same mould." + +Mr. Scalper seems to think that he has not done full justice to the +subject he is treating, for he proceeds to write a long private letter +to Aunt Dorothea in addition to the printed delineation. As he finishes +the City Hall clock points to five, and Policeman Hogan makes the last +entry in his chronicle. Hogan has seated himself upon the steps of The +Eclipse building for greater comfort and writes with a slow, leisurely +fist: + +"The other hand of the clock points north and the second longest points +south-east by south. I infer that it is five o'clock. The electric +lights in Mr. Scalper's room defy the eye. The roundsman has passed and +examined my notes of the night's occurrences. They are entirely +satisfactory, and he is pleased with their literary form. The earthquake +which I apprehended was reduced to a few minor oscillations which cannot +reach me where I sit--" + +The lowering of the bottle interrupts Policeman Hogan. The long letter +to Aunt Dorothea has cooled the ardour of Mr. Scalper. The generous +blush has passed from his mind and he has been trying in vain to restore +it. To afford Hogan a similar opportunity, he decides not to haul the +bottle up immediately, but to leave it in his custody while he +delineates a character. The writing of this correspondent would seem to +the inexperienced eye to be that of a timid little maiden in her teens. +Mr. Scalper is not to be deceived by appearances. He shakes his head +mournfully at the letter and writes: + +"Little Emily. You have known great happiness, but it has passed. +Despondency has driven you to seek forgetfulness in drink. Your writing +shows the worst phase of the liquor habit. I apprehend that you will +shortly have delirium tremens. Poor little Emily! Do not try to break +off; it is too late." + +Mr. Scalper is visibly affected by his correspondent's unhappy +condition. His eye becomes moist, and he decides to haul up the bottle +while there is still time to save Policeman Hogan from acquiring a taste +for liquor. He is surprised and alarmed to find the attempt to haul it +up ineffectual. The minion of the law has fallen into a leaden slumber, +and the bottle remains tight in his grasp. The baffled delineator lets +fall the string and returns to finish his task. Only a few lines are now +required to fill the column, but Mr. Scalper finds on examining the +correspondence that he has exhausted the subjects. This, however, is +quite a common occurrence and occasions no dilemma in the mind of the +talented gentleman. It is his custom in such cases to fill up the space +with an imaginary character or two, the analysis of which is a task most +congenial to his mind. He bows his head in thought for a few moments, +and then writes as follows: + +"Policeman H. Your hand shows great firmness; when once set upon a thing +you are not easily moved. But you have a mean, grasping disposition and +a tendency to want more than your share. You have formed an attachment +which you hope will be continued throughout life, but your selfishness +threatens to sever the bond." + +Having written which, Mr. Scalper arranges his manuscript for the +printer next day, dons his hat and coat, and wends his way home in the +morning twilight, feeling that his pay is earned. + + + + +_The Passing of the Poet_ + + +Studies in what may be termed collective psychology are essentially in +keeping with the spirit of the present century. The examination of the +mental tendencies, the intellectual habits which we display not as +individuals, but as members of a race, community, or crowd, is offering +a fruitful field of speculation as yet but little exploited. One may, +therefore, not without profit, pass in review the relation of the poetic +instinct to the intellectual development of the present era. + +Not the least noticeable feature in the psychological evolution of our +time is the rapid disappearance of poetry. The art of writing poetry, or +perhaps more fairly, the habit of writing poetry, is passing from us. +The poet is destined to become extinct. + +To a reader of trained intellect the initial difficulty at once suggests +itself as to what is meant by poetry. But it is needless to quibble at a +definition of the term. It may be designated, simply and fairly, as the +art of expressing a simple truth in a concealed form of words, any +number of which, at intervals greater or less, may or may not rhyme. + +The poet, it must be said, is as old as civilization. The Greeks had him +with them, stamping out his iambics with the sole of his foot. The +Romans, too, knew him--endlessly juggling his syllables together, long +and short, short and long, to make hexameters. This can now be done by +electricity, but the Romans did not know it. + +But it is not my present purpose to speak of the poets of an earlier and +ruder time. For the subject before us it is enough to set our age in +comparison with the era that preceded it. We have but to contrast +ourselves with our early Victorian grandfathers to realize the profound +revolution that has taken place in public feeling. It is only with an +effort that the practical common sense of the twentieth century can +realize the excessive sentimentality of the earlier generation. + +In those days poetry stood in high and universal esteem. Parents read +poetry to their children. Children recited poetry to their parents. And +he was a dullard, indeed, who did not at least profess, in his hours of +idleness, to pour spontaneous rhythm from his flowing quill. + +Should one gather statistics of the enormous production of poetry some +sixty or seventy years ago, they would scarcely appear credible. +Journals and magazines teemed with it. Editors openly countenanced it. +Even the daily press affected it. Love sighed in home-made stanzas. +Patriotism rhapsodized on the hustings, or cited rolling hexameters to +an enraptured legislature. Even melancholy death courted his everlasting +sleep in elegant elegiacs. + +In that era, indeed, I know not how, polite society was haunted by the +obstinate fiction that it was the duty of a man of parts to express +himself from time to time in verse. Any special occasion of expansion or +exuberance, of depression, torsion, or introspection, was sufficient to +call it forth. So we have poems of dejection, of reflection, of +deglutition, of indigestion. + +Any particular psychological disturbance was enough to provoke an excess +of poetry. The character and manner of the verse might vary with the +predisposing cause. A gentleman who had dined too freely might disexpand +himself in a short fit of lyric doggerel in which "bowl" and "soul" were +freely rhymed. The morning's indigestion inspired a long-drawn elegiac, +with "bier" and "tear," "mortal" and "portal" linked in sonorous +sadness. The man of politics, from time to time, grateful to an +appreciative country, sang back to it, "Ho, Albion, rising from the +brine!" in verse whose intention at least was meritorious. + +And yet it was but a fiction, a purely fictitious obligation, +self-imposed by a sentimental society. In plain truth, poetry came no +more easily or naturally to the early Victorian than to you or me. The +lover twanged his obdurate harp in vain for hours for the rhymes that +would not come, and the man of politics hammered at his heavy hexameter +long indeed before his Albion was finally "hoed" into shape; while the +beer-besotted convivialist cudgelled his poor wits cold sober in rhyming +the light little bottle-ditty that should have sprung like Aphrodite +from the froth of the champagne. + +I have before me a pathetic witness of this fact. It is the note-book +once used for the random jottings of a gentleman of the period. In it I +read: "Fair Lydia, if my earthly harp." This is crossed out, and below +it appears, "Fair Lydia, COULD my earthly harp." This again is erased, +and under it appears, "Fair Lydia, SHOULD my earthly harp." This again +is struck out with a despairing stroke, and amended to read: "Fair +Lydia, DID my earthly harp." So that finally, when the lines appeared in +the Gentleman's Magazine (1845) in their ultimate shape--"Fair Edith, +when with fluent pen," etc., etc.--one can realize from what a desperate +congelation the fluent pen had been so perseveringly rescued. + +There can be little doubt of the deleterious effect occasioned both to +public and private morals by this deliberate exaltation of mental +susceptibility on the part of the early Victorian. In many cases we can +detect the evidences of incipient paresis. The undue access of emotion +frequently assumed a pathological character. The sight of a daisy, of a +withered leaf or an upturned sod, seemed to disturb the poet's mental +equipoise. Spring unnerved him. The lambs distressed him. The flowers +made him cry. The daffodils made him laugh. Day dazzled him. Night +frightened him. + +This exalted mood, combined with the man's culpable ignorance of the +plainest principles of physical science, made him see something out of +the ordinary in the flight of a waterfowl or the song of a skylark. He +complained that he could HEAR it, but not SEE it--a phenomenon too +familiar to the scientific observer to occasion any comment. + +In such a state of mind the most inconsequential inferences were drawn. +One said that the brightness of the dawn--a fact easily explained by the +diurnal motion of the globe--showed him that his soul was immortal. He +asserted further that he had, at an earlier period of his life, trailed +bright clouds behind him. This was absurd. + +With the disturbance thus set up in the nervous system were coupled, in +many instances, mental aberrations, particularly in regard to pecuniary +matters. "Give me not silk, nor rich attire," pleaded one poet of the +period to the British public, "nor gold nor jewels rare." Here was an +evident hallucination that the writer was to become the recipient of an +enormous secret subscription. Indeed, the earnest desire NOT to be given +gold was a recurrent characteristic of the poetic temperament. The +repugnance to accept even a handful of gold was generally accompanied by +a desire for a draught of pure water or a night's rest. + +It is pleasing to turn from this excessive sentimentality of thought and +speech to the practical and concise diction of our time. We have learned +to express ourselves with equal force, but greater simplicity. To +illustrate this I have gathered from the poets of the earlier generation +and from the prose writers of to-day parallel passages that may be +fairly set in contrast. Here, for example, is a passage from the poet +Grey, still familiar to scholars: + + "Can storied urn or animated bust + Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? + Can honour's voice invoke the silent dust + Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?" + +Precisely similar in thought, though different in form, is the more +modern presentation found in Huxley's Physiology: + +"Whether after the moment of death the ventricles of the heart can be +again set in movement by the artificial stimulus of oxygen, is a +question to which we must impose a decided negative." + +How much simpler, and yet how far superior to Grey's elaborate +phraseology! Huxley has here seized the central point of the poet's +thought, and expressed it with the dignity and precision of exact +science. + +I cannot refrain, even at the risk of needless iteration, from quoting a +further example. It is taken from the poet Burns. The original dialect +being written in inverted hiccoughs, is rather difficult to reproduce. +It describes the scene attendant upon the return of a cottage labourer +to his home on Saturday night: + + "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face + They round the ingle form in a circle wide; + The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, + The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride: + His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, + His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare: + Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, + He wales a portion wi' judeecious care." + +Now I find almost the same scene described in more apt phraseology in +the police news of the Dumfries Chronicle (October 3, 1909), thus: "It +appears that the prisoner had returned to his domicile at the usual +hour, and, after partaking of a hearty meal, had seated himself on his +oaken settle, for the ostensible purpose of reading the Bible. It was +while so occupied that his arrest was effected." With the trifling +exception that Burns omits all mention of the arrest, for which, +however, the whole tenor of the poem gives ample warrant, the two +accounts are almost identical. + +In all that I have thus said I do not wish to be misunderstood. +Believing, as I firmly do, that the poet is destined to become extinct, +I am not one of those who would accelerate his extinction. The time has +not yet come for remedial legislation, or the application of the +criminal law. Even in obstinate cases where pronounced delusions in +reference to plants, animals, and natural phenomena are seen to exist, +it is better that we should do nothing that might occasion a mistaken +remorse. The inevitable natural evolution which is thus shaping the +mould of human thought may safely be left to its own course. + + + + +_Self-made Men_ + + +They were both what we commonly call successful business men--men with +well-fed faces, heavy signet rings on fingers like sausages, and broad, +comfortable waistcoats, a yard and a half round the equator. They were +seated opposite each other at a table of a first-class restaurant, and +had fallen into conversation while waiting to give their order to the +waiter. Their talk had drifted back to their early days and how each had +made his start in life when he first struck New York. + +"I tell you what, Jones," one of them was saying, "I shall never forget +my first few years in this town. By George, it was pretty uphill work! +Do you know, sir, when I first struck this place, I hadn't more than +fifteen cents to my name, hadn't a rag except what I stood up in, and +all the place I had to sleep in--you won't believe it, but it's a gospel +fact just the same--was an empty tar barrel. No, sir," he went on, +leaning back and closing up his eyes into an expression of infinite +experience, "no, sir, a fellow accustomed to luxury like you has simply +no idea what sleeping out in a tar barrel and all that kind of thing is +like." + +"My dear Robinson," the other man rejoined briskly, "if you imagine I've +had no experience of hardship of that sort, you never made a bigger +mistake in your life. Why, when I first walked into this town I hadn't a +cent, sir, not a cent, and as for lodging, all the place I had for +months and months was an old piano box up a lane, behind a factory. Talk +about hardship, I guess I had it pretty rough! You take a fellow that's +used to a good warm tar barrel and put him into a piano box for a night +or two, and you'll see mighty soon--" + +"My dear fellow," Robinson broke in with some irritation, "you merely +show that you don't know what a tar barrel's like. Why, on winter +nights, when you'd be shut in there in your piano box just as snug as +you please, I used to lie awake shivering, with the draught fairly +running in at the bunghole at the back." + +"Draught!" sneered the other man, with a provoking laugh, "draught! +Don't talk to me about draughts. This box I speak of had a whole darned +plank off it, right on the north side too. I used to sit there studying +in the evenings, and the snow would blow in a foot deep. And yet, sir," +he continued more quietly, "though I know you'll not believe it, I don't +mind admitting that some of the happiest days of my life were spent in +that same old box. Ah, those were good old times! Bright, innocent days, +I can tell you. I'd wake up there in the mornings and fairly shout with +high spirits. Of course, you may not be able to stand that kind of +life--" + +"Not stand it!" cried Robinson fiercely; "me not stand it! By gad! I'm +made for it. I just wish I had a taste of the old life again for a +while. And as for innocence! Well, I'll bet you you weren't one-tenth as +innocent as I was; no, nor one-fifth, nor one-third! What a grand old +life it was! You'll swear this is a darned lie and refuse to believe +it--but I can remember evenings when I'd have two or three fellows in, +and we'd sit round and play pedro by a candle half the night." + +"Two or three!" laughed Jones; "why, my dear fellow, I've known half a +dozen of us to sit down to supper in my piano box, and have a game of +pedro afterwards; yes, and charades and forfeits, and every other darned +thing. Mighty good suppers they were too! By Jove, Robinson, you fellows +round this town who have ruined your digestions with high living, have +no notion of the zest with which a man can sit down to a few potato +peelings, or a bit of broken pie crust, or--" + +"Talk about hard food," interrupted the other, "I guess I know all about +that. Many's the time I've breakfasted off a little cold porridge that +somebody was going to throw away from a back-door, or that I've gone +round to a livery stable and begged a little bran mash that they +intended for the pigs. I'll venture to say I've eaten more hog's food--" + +"Hog's food!" shouted Robinson, striking his fist savagely on the table, +"I tell you hog's food suits me better than--" + +He stopped speaking with a sudden grunt of surprise as the waiter +appeared with the question: + +"What may I bring you for dinner, gentlemen?" + +"Dinner!" said Jones, after a moment of silence, "dinner! Oh, anything, +nothing--I never care what I eat--give me a little cold porridge, if +you've got it, or a chunk of salt pork--anything you like, it's all the +same to me." + +The waiter turned with an impassive face to Robinson. + +"You can bring me some of that cold porridge too," he said, with a +defiant look at Jones; "yesterday's, if you have it, and a few potato +peelings and a glass of skim milk." + +There was a pause. Jones sat back in his chair and looked hard across at +Robinson. For some moments the two men gazed into each other's eyes with +a stern, defiant intensity. Then Robinson turned slowly round in his +seat and beckoned to the waiter, who was moving off with the muttered +order on his lips. + +"Here, waiter," he said with a savage scowl, "I guess I'll change that +order a little. Instead of that cold porridge I'll take--um, yes--a +little hot partridge. And you might as well bring me an oyster or two on +the half shell, and a mouthful of soup (mock-turtle, consomme, +anything), and perhaps you might fetch along a dab of fish, and a little +peck of Stilton, and a grape, or a walnut." + +The waiter turned to Jones. + +"I guess I'll take the same," he said simply, and added; "and you might +bring a quart of champagne at the same time." + +And nowadays, when Jones and Robinson meet, the memory of the tar barrel +and the piano box is buried as far out of sight as a home for the blind +under a landslide. + + + + +_A Model Dialogue_ + + +In which is shown how the drawing-room juggler may be permanently cured +of his card trick. + +The drawing-room juggler, having slyly got hold of the pack of cards at +the end of the game of whist, says: + +"Ever see any card tricks? Here's rather a good one; pick a card." + +"Thank you, I don't want a card." + +"No, but just pick one, any one you like, and I'll tell which one you +pick." + +"You'll tell who?" + +"No, no; I mean, I'll know which it is don't you see? Go on now, pick a +card." + +"Any one I like?" + +"Yes." + +"Any colour at all?" + +"Yes, yes." + +"Any suit?" + +"Oh, yes; do go on." + +"Well, let me see, I'll--pick--the--ace of spades." + +"Great Caesar! I mean you are to pull a card out of the pack." + +"Oh, to pull it out of the pack! Now I understand. Hand me the pack. All +right--I've got it." + +"Have you picked one?" + +"Yes, it's the three of hearts. Did you know it?" + +"Hang it! Don't tell me like that. You spoil the thing. Here, try again. +Pick a card." + +"All right, I've got it." + +"Put it back in the pack. Thanks. (Shuffle, shuffle, +shuffle--flip)--There, is that it?" (triumphantly). + +"I don't know. I lost sight of it." + +"Lost sight of it! Confound it, you have to look at it and see what it +is." + +"Oh, you want me to look at the front of it!" + +"Why, of course! Now then, pick a card." + +"All right. I've picked it. Go ahead." (Shuffle, shuffle, +shuffle--flip.) + +"Say, confound you, did you put that card back in the pack?" + +"Why, no. I kept it." + +"Holy Moses! Listen. Pick--a--card--just one--look at it--see what it +is--then put it back--do you understand?" + +"Oh, perfectly. Only I don't see how you are ever going to do it. You +must be awfully clever." + +(Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip.) + +"There you are; that's your card, now, isn't it?" (This is the supreme +moment.) + +"NO. THAT IS NOT MY CARD." (This is a flat lie, but Heaven will pardon +you for it.) + +"Not that card!!!! Say--just hold on a second. Here, now, watch what +you're at this time. I can do this cursed thing, mind you, every time. +I've done it on father, on mother, and on every one that's ever come +round our place. Pick a card. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip, bang.) +There, that's your card." + +"NO. I AM SORRY. THAT IS NOT MY CARD. But won't you try it again? Please +do. Perhaps you are a little excited--I'm afraid I was rather stupid. +Won't you go and sit quietly by yourself on the back verandah for half +an hour and then try? You have to go home? Oh, I'm so sorry. It must be +such an awfully clever little trick. Good night!" + + + + +_Back to the Bush_ + + +I have a friend called Billy, who has the Bush Mania. By trade he is a +doctor, but I do not think that he needs to sleep out of doors. In +ordinary things his mind appears sound. Over the tops of his gold-rimmed +spectacles, as he bends forward to speak to you, there gleams nothing +but amiability and kindliness. Like all the rest of us he is, or was +until he forgot it all, an extremely well-educated man. + +I am aware of no criminal strain in his blood. Yet Billy is in reality +hopelessly unbalanced. He has the Mania of the Open Woods. + +Worse than that, he is haunted with the desire to drag his friends with +him into the depths of the Bush. + +Whenever we meet he starts to talk about it. + +Not long ago I met him in the club. + +"I wish," he said, "you'd let me take you clear away up the Gatineau." + +"Yes, I wish I would, I don't think," I murmured to myself, but I +humoured him and said: + +"How do we go, Billy, in a motor-car or by train?" + +"No, we paddle." + +"And is it up-stream all the way?" + +"Oh, yes," Billy said enthusiastically. + +"And how many days do we paddle all day to get up?" + +"Six." + +"Couldn't we do it in less?" + +"Yes," Billy answered, feeling that I was entering into the spirit of +the thing, "if we start each morning just before daylight and paddle +hard till moonlight, we could do it in five days and a half." + +"Glorious! and are there portages?" + +"Lots of them." + +"And at each of these do I carry two hundred pounds of stuff up a hill +on my back?" + +"Yes." + +"And will there be a guide, a genuine, dirty-looking Indian guide?" + +"Yes." + +"And can I sleep next to him?" + +"Oh, yes, if you want to." + +"And when we get to the top, what is there?" + +"Well, we go over the height of land." + +"Oh, we do, do we? And is the height of land all rock and about three +hundred yards up-hill? And do I carry a barrel of flour up it? And does +it roll down and crush me on the other side? Look here, Billy, this trip +is a great thing, but it is too luxurious for me. If you will have me +paddled up the river in a large iron canoe with an awning, carried over +the portages in a sedan-chair, taken across the height of land in a +palanquin or a howdah, and lowered down the other side in a derrick, +I'll go. Short of that, the thing would be too fattening." + +Billy was discouraged and left me. But he has since returned repeatedly +to the attack. + +He offers to take me to the head-waters of the Batiscan. I am content at +the foot. + +He wants us to go to the sources of the Attahwapiscat. I don't. + +He says I ought to see the grand chutes of the Kewakasis. Why should I? + +I have made Billy a counter-proposition that we strike through the +Adirondacks (in the train) to New York, from there portage to Atlantic +City, then to Washington, carrying our own grub (in the dining-car), +camp there a few days (at the Willard), and then back, I to return by +train and Billy on foot with the outfit. + +The thing is still unsettled. + +Billy, of course, is only one of thousands that have got this mania. And +the autumn is the time when it rages at its worst. + +Every day there move northward trains, packed full of lawyers, bankers, +and brokers, headed for the bush. They are dressed up to look like +pirates. They wear slouch hats, flannel shirts, and leather breeches +with belts. They could afford much better clothes than these, but they +won't use them. I don't know where they get these clothes. I think the +railroad lends them out. They have guns between their knees and big +knives at their hips. They smoke the worst tobacco they can find, and +they carry ten gallons of alcohol per man in the baggage car. + +In the intervals of telling lies to one another they read the railroad +pamphlets about hunting. This kind of literature is deliberately and +fiendishly contrived to infuriate their mania. I know all about these +pamphlets because I write them. I once, for instance, wrote up, from +imagination, a little place called Dog Lake at the end of a branch line. +The place had failed as a settlement, and the railroad had decided to +turn it into a hunting resort. I did the turning. I think I did it +rather well, rechristening the lake and stocking the place with suitable +varieties of game. The pamphlet ran like this. + +"The limpid waters of Lake Owatawetness (the name, according to the old +Indian legends of the place, signifies, The Mirror of the Almighty) +abound with every known variety of fish. Near to its surface, so close +that the angler may reach out his hand and stroke them, schools of pike, +pickerel, mackerel, doggerel, and chickerel jostle one another in the +water. They rise instantaneously to the bait and swim gratefully ashore +holding it in their mouths. In the middle depth of the waters of the +lake, the sardine, the lobster, the kippered herring, the anchovy and +other tinned varieties of fish disport themselves with evident +gratification, while even lower in the pellucid depths the dog-fish, the +hog-fish, the log-fish, and the sword-fish whirl about in never-ending +circles. + +"Nor is Lake Owatawetness merely an Angler's Paradise. Vast forests of +primeval pine slope to the very shores of the lake, to which descend +great droves of bears--brown, green, and bear-coloured--while as the +shades of evening fall, the air is loud with the lowing of moose, +cariboo, antelope, cantelope, musk-oxes, musk-rats, and other +graminivorous mammalia of the forest. These enormous quadrumana +generally move off about 10.30 p.m., from which hour until 11.45 p.m. +the whole shore is reserved for bison and buffalo. + +"After midnight hunters who so desire it can be chased through the +woods, for any distance and at any speed they select, by jaguars, +panthers, cougars, tigers, and jackals whose ferocity is reputed to be +such that they will tear the breeches off a man with their teeth in +their eagerness to sink their fangs in his palpitating flesh. Hunters, +attention! Do not miss such attractions as these!" + +I have seen men--quiet, reputable, well-shaved men--reading that +pamphlet of mine in the rotundas of hotels, with their eyes blazing with +excitement. I think it is the jaguar attraction that hits them the +hardest, because I notice them rub themselves sympathetically with their +hands while they read. + +Of course, you can imagine the effect of this sort of literature on the +brains of men fresh from their offices, and dressed out as pirates. + +They just go crazy and stay crazy. + +Just watch them when they get into the bush. + +Notice that well-to-do stockbroker crawling about on his stomach in the +underbrush, with his spectacles shining like gig-lamps. What is he +doing? He is after a cariboo that isn't there. He is "stalking" it. With +his stomach. Of course, away down in his heart he knows that the cariboo +isn't there and never was; but that man read my pamphlet and went crazy. +He can't help it: he's GOT to stalk something. Mark him as he crawls +along; see him crawl through a thimbleberry bush (very quietly so that +the cariboo won't hear the noise of the prickles going into him), then +through a bee's nest, gently and slowly, so that the cariboo will not +take fright when the bees are stinging him. Sheer woodcraft! Yes, mark +him. Mark him any way you like. Go up behind him and paint a blue cross +on the seat of his pants as he crawls. He'll never notice. He thinks +he's a hunting dog. Yet this is the man who laughs at his little son of +ten for crawling round under the dining-room table with a mat over his +shoulders, and pretending to be a bear. + +Now see these other men in camp. + +Someone has told them--I think I first started the idea in my +pamphlet--that the thing is to sleep on a pile of hemlock branches. I +think I told them to listen to the wind sowing (you know the word I +mean), sowing and crooning in the giant pines. So there they are +upside-down, doubled up on a couch of green spikes that would have +killed St. Sebastian. They stare up at the sky with blood-shot, restless +eyes, waiting for the crooning to begin. And there isn't a sow in sight. + +Here is another man, ragged and with a six days' growth of beard, frying +a piece of bacon on a stick over a little fire. Now what does he think +he is? The CHEF of the Waldorf Astoria? Yes, he does, and what's more he +thinks that that miserable bit of bacon, cut with a tobacco knife from a +chunk of meat that lay six days in the rain, is fit to eat. What's more, +he'll eat it. So will the rest. They're all crazy together. + +There's another man, the Lord help him who thinks he has the "knack" of +being a carpenter. He is hammering up shelves to a tree. Till the +shelves fall down he thinks he is a wizard. Yet this is the same man who +swore at his wife for asking him to put up a shelf in the back kitchen. +"How the blazes," he asked, "could he nail the damn thing up? Did she +think he was a plumber?" + +After all, never mind. + +Provided they are happy up there, let them stay. + +Personally, I wouldn't mind if they didn't come back and lie about it. +They get back to the city dead fagged for want of sleep, sogged with +alcohol, bitten brown by the bush-flies, trampled on by the moose and +chased through the brush by bears and skunks--and they have the nerve to +say that they like it. + +Sometimes I think they do. + +Men are only animals anyway. They like to get out into the woods and +growl round at night and feel something bite them. + +Only why haven't they the imagination to be able to do the same thing +with less fuss? Why not take their coats and collars off in the office +and crawl round on the floor and growl at one another. It would be just +as good. + + + + +_Reflections on Riding_ + + +The writing of this paper has been inspired by a debate recently held at +the literary society of my native town on the question, "Resolved: that +the bicycle is a nobler animal than the horse." In order to speak for +the negative with proper authority, I have spent some weeks in +completely addicting myself to the use of the horse. I find that the +difference between the horse and the bicycle is greater than I had +supposed. + +The horse is entirely covered with hair; the bicycle is not entirely +covered with hair, except the '89 model they are using in Idaho. + +In riding a horse the performer finds that the pedals in which he puts +his feet will not allow of a good circular stroke. He will observe, +however, that there is a saddle in which--especially while the horse is +trotting--he is expected to seat himself from time to time. But it is +simpler to ride standing up, with the feet in the pedals. + +There are no handles to a horse, but the 1910 model has a string to each +side of its face for turning its head when there is anything you want it +to see. + +Coasting on a good horse is superb, but should be under control. I have +known a horse to suddenly begin to coast with me about two miles from +home, coast down the main street of my native town at a terrific rate, +and finally coast through a platoon of the Salvation Army into its +livery stable. + +I cannot honestly deny that it takes a good deal of physical courage to +ride a horse. This, however, I have. I get it at about forty cents a +flask, and take it as required. + +I find that in riding a horse up the long street of a country town, it +is not well to proceed at a trot. It excites unkindly comment. It is +better to let the horse walk the whole distance. This may be made to +seem natural by turning half round in the saddle with the hand on the +horse's back, and gazing intently about two miles up the road. It then +appears that you are the first in of about fourteen men. + +Since learning to ride, I have taken to noticing the things that people +do on horseback in books. Some of these I can manage, but most of them +are entirely beyond me. Here, for instance, is a form of equestrian +performance that every reader will recognize and for which I have only a +despairing admiration: + +"With a hasty gesture of farewell, the rider set spurs to his horse and +disappeared in a cloud of dust." + +With a little practice in the matter of adjustment, I think I could set +spurs to any size of horse, but I could never disappear in a cloud of +dust--at least, not with any guarantee of remaining disappeared when the +dust cleared away. + +Here, however, is one that I certainly can do: + +"The bridle-rein dropped from Lord Everard's listless hand, and, with +his head bowed upon his bosom, he suffered his horse to move at a foot's +pace up the sombre avenue. Deep in thought, he heeded not the movement +of the steed which bore him." + +That is, he looked as if he didn't; but in my case Lord Everard has his +eye on the steed pretty closely, just the same. + +This next I am doubtful about: + +"To horse! to horse!" cried the knight, and leaped into the saddle. + +I think I could manage it if it read: + +"To horse!" cried the knight, and, snatching a step-ladder from the +hands of his trusty attendant, he rushed into the saddle. + +As a concluding remark, I may mention that my experience of riding has +thrown a very interesting sidelight upon a rather puzzling point in +history. It is recorded of the famous Henry the Second that he was +"almost constantly in the saddle, and of so restless a disposition that +he never sat down, even at meals." I had hitherto been unable to +understand Henry's idea about his meals, but I think I can appreciate it +now. + + + + +_Saloonio_ + +A STUDY IN SHAKESPEAREAN CRITICISM + + +They say that young men fresh from college are pretty positive about +what they know. But from my own experience of life, I should say that if +you take a comfortable, elderly man who hasn't been near a college for +about twenty years, who has been pretty liberally fed and dined ever +since, who measures about fifty inches around the circumference, and has +a complexion like a cranberry by candlelight, you will find that there +is a degree of absolute certainty about what he thinks he knows that +will put any young man to shame. I am specially convinced of this from +the case of my friend Colonel Hogshead, a portly, choleric gentleman who +made a fortune in the cattle-trade out in Wyoming, and who, in his later +days, has acquired a chronic idea that the plays of Shakespeare are the +one subject upon which he is most qualified to speak personally. + +He came across me the other evening as I was sitting by the fire in the +club sitting-room looking over the leaves of The Merchant of Venice, and +began to hold forth to me about the book. + +"Merchant of Venice, eh? There's a play for you, sir! There's genius! +Wonderful, sir, wonderful! You take the characters in that play and +where will you find anything like them? You take Antonio, take Sherlock, +take Saloonio--" + +"Saloonio, Colonel?" I interposed mildly, "aren't you making a mistake? +There's a Bassanio and a Salanio in the play, but I don't think there's +any Saloonio, is there?" + +For a moment Colonel Hogshead's eye became misty with doubt, but he was +not the man to admit himself in error: + +"Tut, tut! young man," he said with a frown, "don't skim through your +books in that way. No Saloonio? Why, of course there's a Saloonio!" + +"But I tell you, Colonel," I rejoined, "I've just been reading the play +and studying it, and I know there's no such character--" + +"Nonsense, sir, nonsense!" said the Colonel, "why he comes in all +through; don't tell me, young man, I've read that play myself. Yes, and +seen it played, too, out in Wyoming, before you were born, by fellers, +sir, that could act. No Saloonio, indeed! why, who is it that is +Antonio's friend all through and won't leave him when Bassoonio turns +against him? Who rescues Clarissa from Sherlock, and steals the casket +of flesh from the Prince of Aragon? Who shouts at the Prince of Morocco, +'Out, out, you damned candlestick'? Who loads up the jury in the trial +scene and fixes the doge? No Saloonio! By gad! in my opinion, he's the +most important character in the play--" + +"Colonel Hogshead," I said very firmly, "there isn't any Saloonio and +you know it." + +But the old man had got fairly started on whatever dim recollection had +given birth to Saloonio; the character seemed to grow more and more +luminous in the Colonel's mind, and he continued with increasing +animation: + +"I'll just tell you what Saloonio is: he's a type. Shakespeare means him +to embody the type of the perfect Italian gentleman. He's an idea, +that's what he is, he's a symbol, he's a unit--" + +Meanwhile I had been searching among the leaves of the play. "Look +here," I said, "here's the list of the Dramatis Personae. There's no +Saloonio there." + +But this didn't dismay the Colonel one atom. "Why, of course there +isn't," he said. "You don't suppose you'd find Saloonio there! That's +the whole art of it! That's Shakespeare! That's the whole gist of it! +He's kept clean out of the Personae--gives him scope, gives him a free +hand, makes him more of a type than ever. Oh, it's a subtle thing, sir, +the dramatic art!" continued the Colonel, subsiding into quiet +reflection; "it takes a feller quite a time to get right into +Shakespeare's mind and see what he's at all the time." + +I began to see that there was no use in arguing any further with the old +man. I left him with the idea that the lapse of a little time would +soften his views on Saloonio. But I had not reckoned on the way in which +old men hang on to a thing. Colonel Hogshead quite took up Saloonio. +From that time on Saloonio became the theme of his constant +conversation. He was never tired of discussing the character of +Saloonio, the wonderful art of the dramatist in creating him, Saloonio's +relation to modern life, Saloonio's attitude toward women, the ethical +significance of Saloonio, Saloonio as compared with Hamlet, Hamlet as +compared with Saloonio--and so on, endlessly. And the more he looked +into Saloonio, the more he saw in him. + +Saloonio seemed inexhaustible. There were new sides to him--new phases +at every turn. The Colonel even read over the play, and finding no +mention of Saloonio's name in it, he swore that the books were not the +same books they had had out in Wyoming; that the whole part had been cut +clean out to suit the book to the infernal public schools, Saloonio's +language being--at any rate, as the Colonel quoted it--undoubtedly a +trifle free. Then the Colonel took to annotating his book at the side +with such remarks as, "Enter Saloonio," or "A tucket sounds; enter +Saloonio, on the arm of the Prince of Morocco." When there was no +reasonable excuse for bringing Saloonio on the stage the Colonel swore +that he was concealed behind the arras, or feasting within with the +doge. + +But he got satisfaction at last. He had found that there was nobody in +our part of the country who knew how to put a play of Shakespeare on the +stage, and took a trip to New York to see Sir Henry Irving and Miss +Terry do the play. The Colonel sat and listened all through with his +face just beaming with satisfaction, and when the curtain fell at the +close of Irving's grand presentation of the play, he stood up in his +seat, and cheered and yelled to his friends: "That's it! That's him! +Didn't you see that man that came on the stage all the time and sort of +put the whole play through, though you couldn't understand a word he +said? Well, that's him! That's Saloonio!" + + + + +_Half-hours with the Poets_ + + +I.--MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL. + + "I met a little cottage girl, + She was eight years old she said, + Her hair was thick with many a curl + That clustered round her head." + + WORDSWORTH. + +This is what really happened. + +Over the dreary downs of his native Cumberland the aged laureate was +wandering with bowed head and countenance of sorrow. + +Times were bad with the old man. + +In the south pocket of his trousers, as he set his face to the north, +jingled but a few odd coins and a cheque for St. Leon water. Apparently +his cup of bitterness was full. + +In the distance a child moved--a child in form, yet the deep lines upon +her face bespoke a countenance prematurely old. + +The poet espied, pursued and overtook the infant. He observed that +apparently she drew her breath lightly and felt her life in every limb, +and that presumably her acquaintance with death was of the most +superficial character. + +"I must sit awhile and ponder on that child," murmured the poet. So he +knocked her down with his walking-stick and seating himself upon her, he +pondered. + +Long he sat thus in thought. "His heart is heavy," sighed the child. + +At length he drew forth a note-book and pencil and prepared to write +upon his knee. "Now then, my dear young friend," he said, addressing the +elfin creature, "I want those lines upon your face. Are you seven?" + +"Yes, we are seven," said the girl sadly, and added, "I know what you +want. You are going to question me about my afflicted family. You are +Mr. Wordsworth, and you are collecting mortuary statistics for the +Cottagers' Edition of the Penny Encyclopaedia." + +"You are eight years old?" asked the bard. + +"I suppose so," answered she. "I have been eight years old for years and +years." + +"And you know nothing of death, of course?" said the poet cheerfully. + +"How can I?" answered the child. + +"Now then," resumed the venerable William, "let us get to business. Name +your brothers and sisters." + +"Let me see," began the child wearily; "there was Rube and Ike, two I +can't think of, and John and Jane." + +"You must not count John and Jane," interrupted the bard reprovingly; +"they're dead, you know, so that doesn't make seven." + +"I wasn't counting them, but perhaps I added up wrongly," said the +child; "and will you please move your overshoe off my neck?" + +"Pardon," said the old man. "A nervous trick, I have been absorbed; +indeed, the exigency of the metre almost demands my doubling up my feet. +To continue, however; which died first?" + +"The first to go was little Jane," said the child. + +"She lay moaning in bed, I presume?" + +"In bed she moaning lay." + +"What killed her?" + +"Insomnia," answered the girl. "The gaiety of our cottage life, previous +to the departure of our elder brothers for Conway, and the constant +field-sports in which she indulged with John, proved too much for a +frame never too robust." + +"You express yourself well," said the poet. "Now, in regard to your +unfortunate brother, what was the effect upon him in the following +winter of the ground being white with snow and your being able to run +and slide?" + +"My brother John was forced to go," answered she. "We have been at a +loss to understand the cause of his death. We fear that the dazzling +glare of the newly fallen snow, acting upon a restless brain, may have +led him to a fatal attempt to emulate my own feats upon the ice. And, +oh, sir," the child went on, "speak gently of poor Jane. You may rub it +into John all you like; we always let him slide." + +"Very well," said the bard, "and allow me, in conclusion, one rather +delicate question: Do you ever take your little porringer?" + +"Oh, yes," answered the child frankly-- + + "'Quite often after sunset, + When all is light and fair, + I take my little porringer'-- + +"I can't quite remember what I do after that, but I know that I like +it." + +"That is immaterial," said Wordsworth. "I can say that you take your +little porringer neat, or with bitters, or in water after every meal. As +long as I can state that you take a little porringer regularly, but +never to excess, the public is satisfied. And now," rising from his +seat, "I will not detain you any longer. Here is sixpence--or stay," he +added hastily, "here is a cheque for St. Leon water. Your information +has been most valuable, and I shall work it, for all I am Wordsworth." +With these words the aged poet bowed deferentially to the child and +sauntered off in the direction of the Duke of Cumberland's Arms, with +his eyes on the ground, as if looking for the meanest flower that blows +itself. + + +II:--HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN + + "If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear." + + +PART I + +As soon as the child's malady had declared itself the afflicted parents +of the May Queen telegraphed to Tennyson, "Our child gone crazy on +subject of early rising, could you come and write some poetry about +her?" + +Alfred, always prompt to fill orders in writing from the country, came +down on the evening train. The old cottager greeted the poet warmly, and +began at once to speak of the state of his unfortunate daughter. + +"She was took queer in May," he said, "along of a sort of bee that the +young folks had; she ain't been just right since; happen you might do +summat." + +With these words he opened the door of an inner room. + +The girl lay in feverish slumber. Beside her bed was an alarm-clock set +for half-past three. Connected with the clock was an ingenious +arrangement of a falling brick with a string attached to the child's +toe. + +At the entrance of the visitor she started up in bed. "Whoop," she +yelled, "I am to be Queen of the May, mother, ye-e!" + +Then perceiving Tennyson in the doorway, "If that's a caller," she said, +"tell him to call me early." + +The shock caused the brick to fall. In the subsequent confusion Alfred +modestly withdrew to the sitting-room. + +"At this rate," he chuckled, "I shall not have long to wait. A few weeks +of that strain will finish her." + + +PART II + +Six months had passed. + +It was now mid-winter. + +And still the girl lived. Her vitality appeared inexhaustible. + +She got up earlier and earlier. She now rose yesterday afternoon. + +At intervals she seemed almost sane, and spoke in a most pathetic manner +of her grave and the probability of the sun shining on it early in the +morning, and her mother walking on it later in the day. At other times +her malady would seize her, and she would snatch the brick off the +string and throw it fiercely at Tennyson. Once, in an uncontrollable fit +of madness, she gave her sister Effie a half-share in her garden tools +and an interest in a box of mignonette. + +The poet stayed doggedly on. In the chill of the morning twilight he +broke the ice in his water-basin and cursed the girl. But he felt that +he had broken the ice and he stayed. + +On the whole, life at the cottage, though rugged, was not cheerless. In +the long winter evenings they would gather around a smoking fire of +peat, while Tennyson read aloud the Idylls of the King to the rude old +cottager. Not to show his rudeness, the old man kept awake by sitting on +a tin-tack. This also kept his mind on the right tack. The two found +that they had much in common, especially the old cottager. They called +each other "Alfred" and "Hezekiah" now. + + +PART III + +Time moved on and spring came. + +Still the girl baffled the poet. + +"I thought to pass away before," she would say with a mocking grin, "but +yet alive I am, Alfred, alive I am." + +Tennyson was fast losing hope. + +Worn out with early rising, they engaged a retired Pullman-car porter to +take up his quarters, and being a negro his presence added a touch of +colour to their life. + +The poet also engaged a neighbouring divine at fifty cents an evening to +read to the child the best hundred books, with explanations. The May +Queen tolerated him, and used to like to play with his silver hair, but +protested that he was prosy. + +At the end of his resources the poet resolved upon desperate measures. + +He chose an evening when the cottager and his wife were out at a +dinner-party. + +At nightfall Tennyson and his accomplices entered the girl's room. + +She defended herself savagely with her brick, but was overpowered. + +The negro seated himself upon her chest, while the clergyman hastily +read a few verses about the comfort of early rising at the last day. + +As he concluded, the poet drove his pen into her eye. + +"Last call!" cried the negro porter triumphantly. + + +III.--OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE HESPERUS. + + "It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea, + And the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him + company."--LONGFELLOW. + +There were but three people in the cabin party of the Hesperus: old Mr. +Longfellow, the skipper, and the skipper's daughter. + +The skipper was much attached to the child, owing to the singular +whiteness of her skin and the exceptionally limpid blue of her eyes; she +had hitherto remained on shore to fill lucrative engagements as albino +lady in a circus. + +This time, however, her father had taken her with him for company. The +girl was an endless source of amusement to the skipper and the crew. She +constantly got up games of puss-in-the-corner, forfeits, and Dumb Crambo +with her father and Mr. Longfellow, and made Scripture puzzles and +geographical acrostics for the men. + +Old Mr. Longfellow was taking the voyage to restore his shattered +nerves. From the first the captain disliked Henry. He was utterly unused +to the sea and was nervous and fidgety in the extreme. He complained +that at sea his genius had not a sufficient degree of latitude. Which +was unparalleled presumption. + +On the evening of the storm there had been a little jar between +Longfellow and the captain at dinner. The captain had emptied it several +times, and was consequently in a reckless, quarrelsome humour. + +"I confess I feel somewhat apprehensive," said old Henry nervously, "of +the state of the weather. I have had some conversation about it with an +old gentleman on deck who professed to have sailed the Spanish main. He +says you ought to put into yonder port." + +"I have," hiccoughed the skipper, eyeing the bottle, and added with a +brutal laugh that "he could weather the roughest gale that ever wind did +blow." A whole Gaelic society, he said, wouldn't fizz on him. + +Draining a final glass of grog, he rose from his chair, said grace, and +staggered on deck. + +All the time the wind blew colder and louder. + +The billows frothed like yeast. It was a yeast wind. + +The evening wore on. + +Old Henry shuffled about the cabin in nervous misery. + +The skipper's daughter sat quietly at the table selecting verses from a +Biblical clock to amuse the ship's bosun, who was suffering from +toothache. + +At about ten Longfellow went to his bunk, requesting the girl to remain +up in his cabin. + +For half an hour all was quiet, save the roaring of the winter wind. + +Then the girl heard the old gentleman start up in bed. + +"What's that bell, what's that bell?" he gasped. + +A minute later he emerged from his cabin wearing a cork jacket and +trousers over his pyjamas. + +"Sissy," he said, "go up and ask your pop who rang that bell." + +The obedient child returned. + +"Please, Mr. Longfellow," she said, "pa says there weren't no bell." + +The old man sank into a chair and remained with his head buried in his +hands. + +"Say," he exclaimed presently, "someone's firing guns and there's a +glimmering light somewhere. You'd better go upstairs again." + +Again the child returned. + +"The crew are guessing at an acrostic, and occasionally they get a +glimmering of it." + +Meantime the fury of the storm increased. + +The skipper had the hatches battered down. + +Presently Longfellow put his head out of a porthole and called out, +"Look here, you may not care, but the cruel rocks are goring the sides +of this boat like the horns of an angry bull." + +The brutal skipper heaved the log at him. A knot in it struck a plank +and it glanced off. + +Too frightened to remain below, the poet raised one of the hatches by +picking out the cotton batting and made his way on deck. He crawled to +the wheel-house. + +The skipper stood lashed to the helm all stiff and stark. He bowed +stiffly to the poet. The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow on +his fixed and glassy eyes. The man was hopelessly intoxicated. + +All the crew had disappeared. When the missile thrown by the captain had +glanced off into the sea, they glanced after it and were lost. + +At this moment the final crash came. + +Something hit something. There was an awful click followed by a peculiar +grating sound, and in less time than it takes to write it +(unfortunately), the whole wreck was over. + +As the vessel sank, Longfellow's senses left him. When he reopened his +eyes he was in his own bed at home, and the editor of his local paper +was bending over him. + +"You have made a first-rate poem of it, Mr. Longfellow," he was saying, +unbending somewhat as he spoke, "and I am very happy to give you our +cheque for a dollar and a quarter for it." + +"Your kindness checks my utterance," murmured Henry feebly, very feebly. + + + + +_A, B, and C_ + +THE HUMAN ELEMENT IN MATHEMATICS + + +The student of arithmetic who has mastered the first four rules of his +art, and successfully striven with money sums and fractions, finds +himself confronted by an unbroken expanse of questions known as +problems. These are short stories of adventure and industry with the end +omitted, and though betraying a strong family resemblance, are not +without a certain element of romance. + +The characters in the plot of a problem are three people called A, B, +and C. The form of the question is generally of this sort: + +"A, B, and C do a certain piece of work. A can do as much work in one +hour as B in two, or C in four. Find how long they work at it." + +Or thus: + +"A, B, and C are employed to dig a ditch. A can dig as much in one hour +as B can dig in two, and B can dig twice as fast as C. Find how long, +etc. etc." + +Or after this wise: + +"A lays a wager that he can walk faster than B or C. A can walk half as +fast again as B, and C is only an indifferent walker. Find how far, and +so forth." + +The occupations of A, B, and C are many and varied. In the older +arithmetics they contented themselves with doing "a certain piece of +work." This statement of the case however, was found too sly and +mysterious, or possibly lacking in romantic charm. It became the fashion +to define the job more clearly and to set them at walking matches, +ditch-digging, regattas, and piling cord wood. At times, they became +commercial and entered into partnership, having with their old mystery a +"certain" capital. Above all they revel in motion. When they tire of +walking-matches--A rides on horseback, or borrows a bicycle and competes +with his weaker-minded associates on foot. Now they race on locomotives; +now they row; or again they become historical and engage stage-coaches; +or at times they are aquatic and swim. If their occupation is actual +work they prefer to pump water into cisterns, two of which leak through +holes in the bottom and one of which is water-tight. A, of course, has +the good one; he also takes the bicycle, and the best locomotive, and +the right of swimming with the current. Whatever they do they put money +on it, being all three sports. A always wins. + +In the early chapters of the arithmetic, their identity is concealed +under the names John, William, and Henry, and they wrangle over the +division of marbles. In algebra they are often called X, Y, Z. But these +are only their Christian names, and they are really the same people. + +Now to one who has followed the history of these men through countless +pages of problems, watched them in their leisure hours dallying with +cord wood, and seen their panting sides heave in the full frenzy of +filling a cistern with a leak in it, they become something more than +mere symbols. They appear as creatures of flesh and blood, living men +with their own passions, ambitions, and aspirations like the rest of us. +Let us view them in turn. A is a full-blooded blustering fellow, of +energetic temperament, hot-headed and strong-willed. It is he who +proposes everything, challenges B to work, makes the bets, and bends the +others to his will. He is a man of great physical strength and +phenomenal endurance. He has been known to walk forty-eight hours at a +stretch, and to pump ninety-six. His life is arduous and full of peril. +A mistake in the working of a sum may keep him digging a fortnight +without sleep. A repeating decimal in the answer might kill him. + +B is a quiet, easy-going fellow, afraid of A and bullied by him, but +very gentle and brotherly to little C, the weakling. He is quite in A's +power, having lost all his money in bets. + +Poor C is an undersized, frail man, with a plaintive face. Constant +walking, digging, and pumping has broken his health and ruined his +nervous system. His joyless life has driven him to drink and smoke more +than is good for him, and his hand often shakes as he digs ditches. He +has not the strength to work as the others can, in fact, as Hamlin Smith +has said, "A can do more work in one hour than C in four." + +The first time that ever I saw these men was one evening after a +regatta. They had all been rowing in it, and it had transpired that A +could row as much in one hour as B in two, or C in four. B and C had +come in dead fagged and C was coughing badly. "Never mind, old fellow," +I heard B say, "I'll fix you up on the sofa and get you some hot tea." +Just then A came blustering in and shouted, "I say, you fellows, Hamlin +Smith has shown me three cisterns in his garden and he says we can pump +them until to-morrow night. I bet I can beat you both. Come on. You can +pump in your rowing things, you know. Your cistern leaks a little, I +think, C." I heard B growl that it was a dirty shame and that C was used +up now, but they went, and presently I could tell from the sound of the +water that A was pumping four times as fast as C. + +For years after that I used to see them constantly about town and always +busy. I never heard of any of them eating or sleeping. Then owing to a +long absence from home, I lost sight of them. On my return I was +surprised to no longer find A, B, and C at their accustomed tasks; on +inquiry I heard that work in this line was now done by N, M, and O, and +that some people were employing for algebraical jobs four foreigners +called Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta. + +Now it chanced one day that I stumbled upon old D, in the little garden +in front of his cottage, hoeing in the sun. D is an aged labouring man +who used occasionally to be called in to help A, B, and C. "Did I know +'em, sir?" he answered, "why, I knowed 'em ever since they was little +fellows in brackets. Master A, he were a fine lad, sir, though I always +said, give me Master B for kind-heartedness-like. Many's the job as +we've been on together, sir, though I never did no racing nor aught of +that, but just the plain labour, as you might say. I'm getting a bit too +old and stiff for it nowadays, sir--just scratch about in the garden +here and grow a bit of a logarithm, or raise a common denominator or +two. But Mr. Euclid he use me still for them propositions, he do." + +From the garrulous old man I learned the melancholy end of my former +acquaintances. Soon after I left town, he told me, C had been taken ill. +It seems that A and B had been rowing on the river for a wager, and C +had been running on the bank and then sat in a draught. Of course the +bank had refused the draught and C was taken ill. A and B came home and +found C lying helpless in bed. A shook him roughly and said, "Get up, C, +we're going to pile wood." C looked so worn and pitiful that B said, +"Look here, A, I won't stand this, he isn't fit to pile wood to-night." +C smiled feebly and said, "Perhaps I might pile a little if I sat up in +bed." Then B, thoroughly alarmed, said, "See here, A, I'm going to fetch +a doctor; he's dying." A flared up and answered, "You've no money to +fetch a doctor." "I'll reduce him to his lowest terms," B said firmly, +"that'll fetch him." C's life might even then have been saved but they +made a mistake about the medicine. It stood at the head of the bed on a +bracket, and the nurse accidentally removed it from the bracket without +changing the sign. After the fatal blunder C seems to have sunk rapidly. +On the evening of the next day, as the shadows deepened in the little +room, it was clear to all that the end was near. I think that even A was +affected at the last as he stood with bowed head, aimlessly offering to +bet with the doctor on C's laboured breathing. "A," whispered C, "I +think I'm going fast." "How fast do you think you'll go, old man?" +murmured A. "I don't know," said C, "but I'm going at any rate."--The +end came soon after that. C rallied for a moment and asked for a certain +piece of work that he had left downstairs. A put it in his arms and he +expired. As his soul sped heavenward A watched its flight with +melancholy admiration. B burst into a passionate flood of tears and +sobbed, "Put away his little cistern and the rowing clothes he used to +wear, I feel as if I could hardly ever dig again."--The funeral was +plain and unostentatious. It differed in nothing from the ordinary, +except that out of deference to sporting men and mathematicians, A +engaged two hearses. Both vehicles started at the same time, B driving +the one which bore the sable parallelopiped containing the last remains +of his ill-fated friend. A on the box of the empty hearse generously +consented to a handicap of a hundred yards, but arrived first at the +cemetery by driving four times as fast as B. (Find the distance to the +cemetery.) As the sarcophagus was lowered, the grave was surrounded by +the broken figures of the first book of Euclid.--It was noticed that +after the death of C, A became a changed man. He lost interest in racing +with B, and dug but languidly. He finally gave up his work and settled +down to live on the interest of his bets.--B never recovered from the +shock of C's death; his grief preyed upon his intellect and it became +deranged. He grew moody and spoke only in monosyllables. His disease +became rapidly aggravated, and he presently spoke only in words whose +spelling was regular and which presented no difficulty to the beginner. +Realizing his precarious condition he voluntarily submitted to be +incarcerated in an asylum, where he abjured mathematics and devoted +himself to writing the History of the Swiss Family Robinson in words of +one syllable. + + + + +_Acknowledgments_ + + +Many of the sketches which form the present volume have already appeared +in print. Others of them are new. Of the re-printed pieces, "Melpomenus +Jones," "Policeman Hogan," "A Lesson in Fiction," and many others were +contributions by the author to the New York Truth. The "Boarding-House +Geometry" first appeared in Truth, and was subsequently republished in +the London Punch, and in a great many other journals. The sketches +called the "Life of John Smith," "Society Chit-Chat," and "Aristocratic +Education" appeared in Puck. "The New Pathology" was first printed in +the Toronto Saturday Night, and was subsequently republished by the +London Lancet, and by various German periodicals in the form of a +translation. The story called "Number Fifty-Six" is taken from the +Detroit Free Press. "My Financial Career" was originally contributed to +the New York Life, and has been frequently reprinted. The Articles "How +to Make a Million Dollars" and "How to Avoid Getting Married," etc. are +reproduced by permission of the Publishers' Press Syndicate. The wide +circulation which some of the above sketches have enjoyed has encouraged +the author to prepare the present collection. + +The author desires to express his sense of obligation to the proprietors +of the above journals who have kindly permitted him to republish the +contributions which appeared in their columns. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LITERARY LAPSES *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be +renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so +the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. +Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this +license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and +trademark. 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